


Episode 901: Earth Angel

by agelade



Series: Lustra: A Supernatural Season 9 AU [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boys Got Issues, Brother Bond, Canon Typical Violence, Casefic (kinda), Gen, Supernatural Season 9 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:45:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agelade/pseuds/agelade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode 1 in Lustra, a Season Nine AU.  </p>
<p>Sam Winchester has made his choice in the little abandoned church at the end of that lake-side lane.  Not for the first time, Dean can't stop him from throwing his life away.  But things don't always go as planned, especially not for the Winchesters, and now they have more than one mess to clean up.</p>
<p>N.B.: This episode picks up in the final Sam and Dean scene of the season 8 finale and makes a slight change to it.  Otherwise, this is a canon-compliant season of episodes that is AU only because this one detail has been intentionally changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Caladrius and TrippyPeas for their help in conceiving much of the material that will be used in this episode and the following season of them. I can think of no better way to spend hiatus than to plan a season of story with you ladies.

 

**_THE ROAD SO FAR_ **

“Do you have _any_ idea what it’s like to watch your _brother_ , just _\--”_

“Hold on, hold on.”  Dean put a hand out, to pause the moment, to stop time, give himself a chance to think, to absorb what Sam was saying here.  “You seriously think that?  Because none of it-- _none_ of it is true.”

Sam took a shuddering breath and turned away.  Turned away from Dean, toward Crowley and toward death, and his face was screwed up in agony that Dean suspected had little to do with blood loss or fatigue or whatever had cut up his face while Dean had been off playing scavenger hunt with Cas.  Sam turned away, and Dean needed him back.  

“Listen man, I know we’ve - we’ve had our disagreements.  Hell I know I’ve said some junk that set you back on your heels.  But Sammy.  Come on.”  And he could hear he was begging, and he didn’t care.  Maybe begging was what Sam needed.  Maybe desperation would bring him back.  “I killed Benny to save you.  I’m willing to let this bastard, and all the other black eyed sons of bitches that killed Mom _walk_ \- because of you.  Don’t you _dare_ think that there is anything past or present that I would put in front of you.  It has _never_ been like that, _ever_.”

Sam looked away again.   _Again_.  

“I need you to see that.  I’m begging you.”

Sam looked down at his hand; blood dripped -- too much blood, and Sam had been wavering on his feet even before they’d gotten to this abandoned little church.  Dean waited.  And he catalogued every little bump and bruise and broken bit of his brother, and he made a promise to patch him up and to tell him every day how stupid it is to throw your life away when people _need_ you goddammit, people _love_ you.

“I don’t-”  Sam’s voice came out croaking.  He licked his lips.  Looked at Crowley, then the floor.  “Dean, I-”  When he looked back up, his eyes were so dark with wetness, and sunken into his face with sickness, and hopelessness draped around his shoulders like a blanket.   He shook his head.  “I know.  I know, it’s true, Dean.  You’ve been a - good brother to me, but - that doesn’t mean I _deserve_ it.”  He opened his mouth to say something else, looked lost, hollow, hopeful.  Then he swallowed whatever it was and said instead:  “I’m sorry.”  

Dean blinked.  And lead was in his legs, cold and heavy with refusal, denial.  And before Dean could cross the space between himself and Sam, Sam had turned, laid his hand so gently over Crowley’s mouth while Crowley cried, Sam’s face upturned there, with the crucifix looming over them.  And the words of exorcism fell from Sam’s lips like a prayer:

_“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, hanc animam redintegra, lustra... lustra.”_

Sam took a steadying breath and without letting Crowley go, without moving because, Dean thought, he might not be able to go on if he had, Sam whispered: “Kah.  Nah.  Ahm.”  And a big breath:  “... Dar.”

And then quiet; it was done.

“Sam?”  Dean’s voice was too loud for the silent sanctuary.  But he called Sam’s name again as he rushed through the space between them and he let it echo in his head as an accusation: _you didn’t try hard enough.  What oh what have you done?_

Sam dropped to his knees at Crowley’s side, his head bowed into the demon’s chest.  His hand fell into Crowley’s lap.  He listed to the side dangerously, and then Dean was there, hands on Sam’s shoulders to guide him to the floor, and if he mouthed or whispered or screamed Sam’s name over and over and over, he didn’t know it.

His little brother’s eyes were closed.  His mouth slightly agape as he lay there among the broken glass and the wayward leaves and Dean patted Sam’s cheek to wake him, he petted Sam’s sweat-damp hair to wake him, he hoisted Sam up to his chest where he rocked him and he tried so _hard_ to wake him and yet--

“Uh, sorry to ruin the moment, but-”

Crowley’s voice came through Dean’s fuzzed hearing muddled, but bitchy.  Dean lowered his head to Sammy’s shoulder and shushed Sam’s name over and over.

“I don’t, uh, I don’t seem to be exactly what you might call cured.”

Dean stopped rocking Sam’s body.  Stopped with his hand on the back of Sam’s cold, clammy neck.  Blinked the blear from his eyes.  “What?”

“Cured.  You know.  My course of antibiotics - doesn’t seem to have cleared up my case of demon VD.”

In his arms, against his chest, Sam coughed thickly, and then he stirred, and Dean pushed him back to look into his face.

“Sam?”

“Dean.  What happened?”

“Nothin’, that’s what happened.”  Dean gave him a little shake, to get him to focus.  “Sammy, look at me.”

Sam’s eyebrows drew together and he took a shaky breath.  “I’m alive.”  He looked stunned, and more -- disappointed, distraught.  “Then it didn’t work.”  He looked at Dean.  “Why didn’t it work?  It was supposed to--”

“Shh, come on.  Let’s just appreciate the fact that your suicide mission failed, okay?”

Sam was shaking his head.  “No, no.  I can’t-”

“Yes you can, Sam.  We can figure out some other way okay.”

“But how will I--?”  He cut himself off with a hiss through his teeth, and he brought his hands out between the two of them and together they watched the golden glow recede from his arms.  He looked up and answered the question in Dean’s face with a one-shouldered shrug and spoke through gritted teeth.  “It’s still in me.  You don’t know how this feels.”

“It’s okay, I gotcha.  It’s gonna be okay, Sammy.”

Sam frowned, but he nodded, and he allowed Dean to help him to his feet.  But Dean managed to get him only a couple of steps toward a pew before Sam buckled again, crying out and clutching at his chest, his shoulder, at Dean, grasping for purchase and choking.  He didn’t - or couldn’t - answer any of Dean’s frantic questions about what was wrong, but Dean didn’t stop asking.  He kept asking and he kept murmuring because it kept Sammy present while Dean lugged him out of the chapel toward the car.  “I gotcha, little brother.  You’re gonna be just fine.”

Sam slid to the muddy ground beside the car, too gangly and boneless for Dean to be able to support him anymore, and Dean collapsed next to him, to shake him, to keep him conscious.  “Sam?  Sam!”  He felt Sam’s hand come up over his own, pressing it to Sam’s chest like it was a lifeline, felt the shaking there, the rigid agony there, the thumping heart.  “Cas?  Castiel, where the hell are you!”

He looked up, although he had stopped looking for Cas to answer his prayers long before.  He looked up for an answer because Cas _owed_ him --

And the clouds in the night sky, black against a blacker night, lit up in spots, in streaks, and they were falling, they were falling--

_Oh no, Cas.  No._  

The impact of one of them into the nearby lake jerked Sam back to wakefulness.  Dean heard his breathless question: _What’s happening?_ and replied, “The angels.  They’re falling.”

 

**_NOW_ **

“What’s happening?”

Kevin looked up from the tablet to the map lit up in red in the center of the room.  “No change,” he said.  He looked over at Dean and shook his head.  “You look like crap.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well compared to you, I’m a friggin prom queen.  You hungry?  Makin’ some dinner for Sam.”

Kevin frowned.  “How is he?”

Dean made a face and turned toward the kitchenette.  “Whiny.”

Kevin nodded and looked back at the tablet.   _Whiny_.  Right.   “Maybe I’ll go check on him,” he suggested.

Dean half turned to him, to regard him askance.  “He’s sleeping.”

“But I-”

“Just leave him alone, okay?”

“Dean-”

“Just leave my brother alone, Kevin.”  Dean was suddenly pissed, and Kevin had kinda got the idea this was usual, but he’d never gotten used to it, locked away in solitude on Garth’s houseboat.  No wonder Sam was tired all the time.  But Dean settled himself quickly enough and said: “He doesn’t need you poking around.  He needs... sleep.  And.  Soup.”  

Dean dropped his hands and stared at the floor, like he was willing Kevin to drop it already, and Kevin frowned.  Sleep and soup, huh.  “Sure,” Kevin said.  “Then maybe I need to ask _you_.”

Dean knelt at a cabinet door and clattered some pots around looking for the one he wanted.  “Ask me what?”

Kevin took a deep breath.  “What happened?  I gotta know.  You gotta tell me.  Something went wrong, and I deserve to know-”

“It just didn’t work, okay?  Don’t worry about it.  We’ll handle it, Sam and me.”

Kevin shook his head.  “You did something wrong, I know it.  I - have worked my _ass_ off for you.  My mother is _dead_ because of you.  You have to tell me what went wrong. You _owe_ me that.”

“Kevin goddammit-!”

“It was me,” Sam said from the steps that led down to his bedroom.  His voice was gravel; he looked like hell.  It was hard for Kevin to imagine him ever “whining” for soup, and he decided that Dean was an asshole for downplaying it.  But then Dean was saying _whoa whoa whoa hey_ and basically sprinted across the large room to give Sam a hand up the stairs and sit him down at the conference table, and he shot Kevin a murderous look that said _stow it or they’ll never find all of your organs_ and Kevin decided Dean was - okay, an asshole, but also serious about his brother’s well-being.

“What do you mean, it was you?” Kevin risked, glancing at Dean, who scowled so intensely Kevin thought his face might blackhole in on itself.

Sam sighed heavily, hands together on the table, one thumb ghosting over the bandaged palm of the other hand.  He shrugged after a moment - gathering his thoughts, or just the energy to _shrug_ , Kevin didn’t know.  “The exorcism was... as textbook as these things get, but... It-”

"Sam,” Dean warned from the kitchen.

"Dean,” Sam shot back.  “He deserves to know.”

“Sammy, stop, it’s not--”

“It didn’t work,” Sam said.

“Dammit, Sam-”  

The clatter in the kitchen went up and Dean’s voice went low and curse-filled and Kevin rolled his eyes and watched Sam as he attempted to explain.

“I swear, we did everything the way it was supposed to be done.  The first two - I _felt_ them working, so I know we didn’t screw up with either of them.  And after I started with Crowley, after that first, uh, dose, I got the glowy goodness, so I think we were on the right track for the third one, but--”

Kevin was nodding.  “But you didn’t finish it?”

“No, I did.  I mean, I tried.”

The clattering in the kitchen died down and Dean came out, wiping his hands on a towel.

Sam spared him a look, but went on.  “But I’m - I’m not--”

“It was supposed to kill you, Sam.  What were you thinkin’?”  Dean stood with his hands on his hips, looking for all the world like a mother, like Kevin’s mother had looked that time Kevin had attempted to be one of those teenagers who stays out after curfew.

Sam shot a look at Dean, anger flashing, lines of his face tight.  “It’s one life.  For everyone’s.  This isn’t exactly new ground for us, Dean.”

Kevin raised his brows and looked at Dean.  Dean looked white.  “What?” Kevin said.

“Yeah, well why’s it always gotta be your life, Sam!”

Sam twisted his mouth up and stared at the table, bitter and drawn.  He mumbled his response and Kevin didn’t think Dean had heard it because he didn’t explode or even address it, but Kevin thought he heard Sam say, “You _know_ why.”

“It’s not worth it, Sam.  Hell, it wasn’t worth it then.”

Sam opened his mouth to retort, but he thought better, apparently, of what he’d been about to say, and instead he said, “Yes it was.”

“Guys,” Kevin interrupted.  “Guys.  Wow.  Can we just deal with one apocalypse at a time?”

“This isn’t the apocalypse, Kevin,” Dean snapped, and he went back into the kitchen where the soup was probably boiling over.

“What crawled up _his_ ass?” Kevin grumbled, turning back to Sam.

Sam was staring at the tabletop.  “He’s right,” he said vacantly.  “This isn’t the apocalypse.  It just might as well be.”

Kevin stared, but in his defense, he tried not to.  He didn’t know what the Winchesters were talking about half the time they talked to each other over him; he might as well have been a chatty houseplant.  But often enough they talked around the thing that had changed them both beyond what the bonds of brothers could reasonably bear.  He hadn’t been a prophet yet, and he feared how the prophet who’d seen that part of their lives had met his end.  The way both Sam and Dean looked at him sometimes, like he was fragile and needed protecting, or sometimes like they shouldn’t get attached because he was replaceable.

And if _this_ wasn’t the apocalypse, falling angels and everything, what _was_?

But then Dean was coming back out with a big bowl of soup which he set down in front of Sam with enough force that some slopped out onto the table, and Sam jumped and woke a little, and Kevin realized Sam had drifted off with his eyes half open while Kevin had been staring right at him.  Dean rolled his eyes at the way Sam gasped and glared at him, and muttered _sorry_ and squeezed Sam’s shoulder awkwardly, and he said, “I need a beer.  You better eat that whole bowl.”

“Fine,” Sam said, breathy.

Kevin frowned.  “Dean-”

“Zip it.  Yours is in the kitchen.  Get it before it congeals.”

* * *

 

“I swear I was only gone a minute!” Kevin sputtered.

“Save it,” Dean growled.  He was at Sam’s side, taking his pulse, patting his cheek.  “Sammy, _Sam_ , wake up buddy.”

Sam was slumped over onto the table, soup pushed aside - _pushed_ , not _knocked_ , not _haphazardly flailed_ \- and Sam’s arm was stretched out under his head, and his other arm was bent for stability, and Dean thought he had probably just laid his head down in exhaustion.

Except he didn’t wake up when Dean came in yelling about having to go on a beer run and did Sam want some ice cream or lettuce or --

And he didn’t wake up when Dean patted his shoulder, and he didn’t wake up when Dean shoved the chair next to him away in a clatter and grasped his shoulder to shake him.

But he was breathing and his pulse was steady, so there was that.  

“What’s wrong with him?” Kevin said, sitting across the table with his soup.  

Dean bit back a remark on the audacity of _sitting there eating soup when Sam was in terrible trouble_ , because it would come out mean and unhelpful and really, Sam wasn’t in terrible trouble.  He was just... sleeping.

So instead, Dean said, “I don’t know.  Nothing.”  He dragged the chair back to the table and sat in it, facing Sam, and he tilted Sam’s face toward him by the chin.  Dean glanced at Kevin to find the prophet watching carefully.  No way to be smooth about it, but he tried anyway; he pulled down on Sam’s bottom lip, brushed against the gumline, took stock of Sam’s teeth.  They were white enough, but in his cheek where a little drool was already pooling, rusty pink.  Dean swore.

“But that isn’t exactly _new_ ,” Kevin said.  “Right?”

Dean frowned at him.  “No,” he said, wiping his thumb on his jeans.  “But I was hoping... I don’t know.  I was hoping it was over.  Come on, help me get him to his room.”

Kevin looked from Dean to Sam, slumped over and like a full foot and a half taller than the little prophet boy.  “Yeah right.”

“Suck it up, brain trust.”  Dean got to his feet and ducked under Sam’s arm, hoisting him to his feet.  “Get over here and get his other arm.”

Together they managed to finagle Sam halfway to the little stairs before the jostling finally did wake him, a little.

“Whass?” he slurred.  “Guys?”

Dean resecured his arm when Sam tried to push him away.  “You’re going to bed, little man.  Come on, step.  Step.”

But Kevin did let go when Sam pushed at him, and Sam stumbled without the support, nearly taking Dean with him.  

“Kevin, what the hell?” Dean grumbled.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam breathed.  He dragged his head up to look at Kevin.  Dean rolled his eyes at the obvious emotion in them.  “Kevin, I- I’m so sorry.  I didn’t-”

Kevin twisted his mouth up.  “Look, whatever.  It’s not like you knew it wouldn’t work or something--”

“Knock it off, both of you,” Dean said.  And he gave Kevin a look over Sam’s shoulder that promised _a talk_ later, and Kevin shut his mouth.  “Come on, dude,” he said then to Sam and got him the rest of the way down the stairs.

Back upstairs, Dean leaned on the table into Kevin’s space.  But before he could get a single word out, Kevin said:

“You’d be pissed too, if your world got turned upside down and your mom and everyone you knew got killed, and it was for nothing because we had the wrong guy on the case the whole time.”

Dean narrowed his eyes and he thought he saw Kevin flinch a little, and _good_ , because Dean was feeling dangerous and violent and he really needed that beer he never got.  “Sam is _not_ the wrong guy.  We don’t know what happened.  Maybe _you_ screwed up, you think of that?”

“I _didn’t_ screw up.”

Dean growled down every mean-spirited thing he wanted to say about the shrimp.  “Whatever.  But if you try to lay this at his feet one more time--”

Kevin blew out a breath and sat back in his chair.  “I’m sorry.  I’m tired, and--”

He massaged at his temple and Dean shook his head.  “Headache?”

“Yeah.”

“Tablet stuff?”

“Yeah.  Look.  I’ll lay off Sam, okay.  He said he got the glowies and I guess that means it was working, at least up til the end- I mean, the last part,” he edited hastily, possibly catching the scowl Dean aimed at him at the mention of _the end_.  “So, okay, yes.  He’s the right guy, but.”  Kevin sighed.  “We still don’t know what went wrong.  I _know_ I got the translation right.”

Dean relented and dropped into a chair next to Kevin, scrubbed a hand over his face.  “We’ll figure it out.  In the meantime, this trial crap is still kicking Sam’s ass.  I don’t suppose you found anything that can put the whole thing on pause in case of emergencies, didja?”

“No.  Sorry.”

“Well add it to your list.  I’m going to go get some supplies.  Need anything?”

Kevin looked down at his soup and wrinkled his nose.  “Some tofu dogs?  Vegetables that aren’t just romaine lettuce?”

Dean rolled his eyes.  “Jesus you’re both freaks.”

* * *

 

Dean sat on the hood of the Impala at the end of the lane, staring up into a sky that looked like it was missing a few hundred stars.  Probably his imagination; he couldn’t get the image of streaking light out of his head.  It had only been a couple of hours, but the sky was back to normal already, and it was obscene.

“Cas,” he prayed.  It was pointless; Cas hadn’t shown up any of the dozens of times he’d prayed since Sam collapsed at the abandoned church.  But he tried anyway, because Sam was getting beaten into the ground and _now_ there was no endpoint to it, no final trial, no _It’s finished, we’re done._  No chance to survive the way Sam had said he wanted back at the Cassity ranch, a wife, kids, grandkids - nothing.  “Castiel you son of a bitch.”

* * *

 

“What did he mean, it was supposed to kill you?”

Sam looked up at Kevin from his bed.  He hadn’t dropped off after Dean had settled him in his bed.  It was too hard to sleep in the windowless room, alone, in the dark where shadows could be anything.  Failing to finish the trials, maybe, had triggered some unpleasant side effects Sam wasn’t ready to share with the class.  He was sitting up in bed, reading through some manuscripts on Veridta killings in the southwestern US from 1893, but he lay them aside and turned to sit with his feet on the floor.

“Um,” Sam said, folding his hands into his lap.  He shrugged.  “The final trial was supposed to include the ‘ultimate sacrifice,’ so Dean says Naomi says.”

“For the person doing them to die,” Kevin said, nodding like he’d suspected.

“You knew?”

“No, but it makes sense in retrospect with some of the-- well.  Anyway,” Kevin said, rambling and nervous.  

Sam laughed a little at him and waved him into the room.  If the kid was willing to talk to him, it was a win.  If Kevin could forgive him for failing, that was a win.  If only he wasn’t always in need of _someone’s_ forgiveness.  “It doesn’t matter now,” he said.

Kevin came fully into the room and pulled over the little desk chair.  “ _You_ knew, didn’t you.”

“I suspected.  But like I said, it doesn’t matter.  Kevin, this is what we _do_.”

“Yeah, you mentioned,” Kevin snapped.

Sam raised his brows and held out a hand to calm the kid down.  But his hand shook and he dropped it to his knee again.  “Look, Kevin--”

“I’m sick of being out of the loop--  And don’t say anything.  I’m not stupid.  I know whatever it was, it was big, and you obviously don’t want to talk about it.  I’m just saying, it seems like you’ve done this world-saving thing before.  So I guess I’m just looking for a little guidance, trying to figure out what went wrong.”

Sam shrugged again and heaved a sigh.  “Maybe like you said.  I’m not the guy...”

“You’re the guy.  I’m sorry I said that.  I’m sorry you heard me say it.  I was pissed.  But Dean--”

“Dean’s -- He’s--”

“It’s okay.  He’s your brother.  I get it.  But that’s not what I was going to say.  I was going to say he’s right.  You got the glowy, you said you felt it working.  I don’t think any of it would work if it wasn’t possible for you to do it at all.  So whatever this is--”

“Kevin.”  Sam pursed his lips.  The last thing he wanted to do was admit the real reason he suspected Kevin was right about him, that he had been infected in infancy by a curse that ran through his veins.  That he had evil inside of him, that he only _hoped_ the trials were cleansing from him.  But the evil was too deep, because he had given in to it with Ruby and he had paid only part of the penance for that because he’d been pulled from the cage and he was _supposed_ to have been there for eternity.  He was supposed die over and over for what he’d done, and he had, but not enough not enough and a sudden sick flash of red and blinding white and a thousand thousand deaths scent of metal and brimstone a fountain of laughter so familiar and distinctive --

He sucked in a breath and he must have gone white or briefly comatose because Kevin was shaking his shoulders and saying his name and muttering about how Dean would _kill_ him, and Sam pushed him away.  “I’m okay.  I’m fine.”  He looked at Kevin, got his bearings, his breath, patted Kevin’s hand still on his shoulder and then gently lifted it away because the touch was too much just now when he felt like he was being frozen from the inside out and also like he was so feverish he could melt.  He got his head back under him, found his train of thought.  Telling Kevin that he was wrong about him, that he wasn’t the right guy.  “I don’t--”

“Trust me.”  It was unsettling how paternal Kevin sounded. “Trust me, Sam.  I’m the prophet.  I am telling you, no part of it would work if the whole thing couldn’t work.  So something went wrong and I’m going to find out what.  Okay?  And this won’t have been for nothing.”  He gestured to Sam’s general body area, and Sam scratched absently at his chest, self-conscious.  

“Honey!” Dean called from the base doors, down a hall and safely far from Sam’s room.  “I’m hoo-oome!”

Sam and Kevin frowned at each other.

“Don’t tell him I was--” Kevin began, but Sam nodded.

“I’ve been asleep the whole time,” Sam said.

Kevin frowned at him, but Sam warned him with a look and repeated “the _whole_ time” and when Kevin left, Sam exhaled.

He was tired.  Tired in his bones, and he _knew_ tired.  He was old frenemies with tired.  He and tired were practically lovers.  Tired meant you were still alive, meant you had worked for something, earned it.  Tired was something he had taken pride in, even if it had nearly killed him, even if Dean thought he was giving up.

There was a shout up on the main floor, Dean’s rough gravel although Sam couldn’t make out the words, and then a shuffle in the hall as Dean found Kevin there.   _Not fast enough, Kev_.  

“I thought I told you--”

“I swear, I was just checking on him.”

“You listen here you little shrimp.  I don’t know if I’m just not making myself crystal here or what, but you are under _no_ circumstances to shake his tree, got it?  Have you _seen_ the guy lately?  He can’t even walk to his room under his own power.  He’s sick, and weak, and I have enough to worry about without you making it worse.”

Kevin mumbled something Sam couldn’t hear, but then Dean was saying: “Pain in my ass, is what,” and Sam didn’t want to hear any more.

So he curled back up in bed and laid his head down on the pillow and when he heard Dean’s footsteps, he closed his eyes and waited for the knock on his door.  The footsteps stopped.  Dean didn’t knock, but Sam heard him come into the room.  Felt him gather the pages Sam had been studying -- dammit -- and shuffle them into a stack, and then he felt Dean’s hand smooth the blanket over his chest and Sam thought about “waking up” then, but he didn’t want to talk, and he didn’t want to listen, so he shifted a little and settled back into “sleep” and heard Dean sigh heavily before he finally left the room.

When Sam opened his eyes again, the manuscript pages were gone.  A beer and a granola bar were on his bedside table, along with a couple of tylenol.

* * *

 

Castiel stared.  Above him, his sisters and brothers fell, shrieking in agony and terror at a frequency Castiel could no longer hear.  The fire that surrounded them as they plummeted, Castiel knew, was a mile across, a wingspan across, but the full expanse of that fire burned with colors he had lost the ability to see.

So small and silent they were as they fell, mouths open, eyes shut, fearful and desolate and it was all his fault, again, again.

Trusted the wrong person, again, again.

And he doubled up on the earth again, heaved what he had not yet already heaved from his mortal guts, the sick squelch of them inside him, the bursting beating of that heart he had never paid attention to, the feeling of hunger and nausea which fought inside him, the well of emotion and the attempt to control it which warred for dominance.

He lay in the dirt, again.  A stumble of miles at a time, and then the dirt where he belonged.  A stumble again, and then the dirt.  He painted himself with it, to hide himself from shame.  That didn’t work.  He cleaned himself off in a running river to wash his sins from him, and that didn’t work.  He found and murdered a doe and her fawn to prove his loyalty to heaven, a blood sacrifice, because that had always ever been the skeleton key in times of doubt, _blood blood blood_.

That didn’t work.

“Father, please,” he said.

That didn’t work.

“Adonai,” he breathed.  And then: “Iad... Enay!  La chia de gonoad norom!”  And he fell to his knees before a silent father he had long given up on but had never forgotten.

On his back in a field of mud, rained down upon by the water hundreds of burning falling angels had drawn from the air, Castiel despaired.  He was so light now, without them.  His wings, the boundless energy of them constantly pressing down upon his electromagnetic field.  The grace which had supported them pulled out of him like sick from a wound, and he felt as though he could be borne up into the atmosphere without them, spiralled out into nothingness without them, without the weight they carried inside them.

But he felt somehow more sane without them.  Something was missing now, without his grace, and he could think so clearly.  His heart, the traitorous thing, beat away now without that disconnect that told him he was wrong to feel so strongly, to disobey, to love even though it was in their programming, wasn’t it?  To love these little human things?  Why had it been so forbidden?

And it occurred to Castiel that if anyone would help him, it was one of these humans.  “Dean,” he said aloud, laying there in the dirt.  Surely one of them would answer his prayers.  “Dean,” he said again, more insistently.  But Dean perhaps did not forgive him his sins, even after he had tried to make amends, even after he had taken on Sam’s madness, his pain and torment -- what he had done to Sam, oh Sam.  “Sam,” he said then.  “Sam please.  Help me please.  I don’t know what to do.”

* * *

 

Sam had drifted.  Despite his best efforts to stay awake, he had drifted into a doze deep enough for nightmares, too light for appreciable restedness.  He dreamed of some cold cold space, some long abandoned city crawling with things that wanted to kill him.  He dreamt of being the thing that wanted to kill.  He dreamt of his brother, speaking to him with hatred dripping from his tongue in blood.  He dreamt of agony.  He dreamt of weight, and then weightlessness, and then desperation and fire and terror as he fell --

And he sat up in his bed, gasping, gasping, clutching onto the sweat-damp sheet.   _Jesus._

And that was that for sleep.  He palmed the tylenols from his nightstand and tottered to his bathroom sink for a handful of water to down them with.  Cool, clean, _real_.  And then Dean was at his doorway, looking worried, and Sam wondered whether he’d said something in his sleep.  He scrubbed his damp hand over his face like he had just been washing up, but Dean eyed the nightstand where the pills had been and shook his head and said, “Think you might be up for a real meal now, princess?”

Sam nodded.  “Yeah.  Yeah.  I’ll be right up.”

Dean gave him the stink eye and left, but when Sam stepped out of his door ten minutes later, having washed his face for real and brushed his teeth and changed out of his sweaty clothes, Dean was leaning against the wall at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the main floor of the compound.

He didn’t say anything as he took Sam’s arm, and Sam was too beat to complain and unsteady besides, and it wouldn’t change anything if he made a token attempt to shrug Dean off, because there was about a 30% chance Sam would fall flat on his face before making it to the table and that was too high a chance to risk his pride on.  And of course, the last thing he wanted was to pitch a fit about it and then fall ass over end anyway -- and have to listen to the annoyed grumble as Dean picked him back up from the floor and had to help him after all and tell him _I told you so_ and roll his eyes at the _pain in the ass._

“Hey Dean,” he said instead, as Dean hovered around him, ready to catch him if he stumbled.  “You try Cas again?  I’m getting a little worried.”

“Son of a bitch isn’t answering,” Dean grumbled.

Sam lowered himself into a chair and looked up as Kevin set a bowl of reheated soup in front of him.  Seriously.  When were they going to get that all this crap tasted like vomit to him, rotting meat, burned flesh, dusty bloody bones, ashes of cities, decaying organs, atrophied dead limbs he couldn’t get rid of but had been forced to carry, to use, to see, to feel--  He sniffed the soup and tried to smile and he knew he failed because Kevin frowned and Dean rolled his eyes.

“You’ve been trying him?” Sam said, getting them back on task and off his back.

“Yeah.  No dice.  Maybe he’s dead...”  Dean drained his beer and went to get another.

“Way to think positive,” Sam said.  Then he called after Dean:  “Maybe his _cell_ is dead.”

Dean poked his head out of the kitchen.  “His cell.”

Sam quirked a brow.  “Yeah...” he said slowly, glancing at Kevin.  “His cellular telephone?”

“Don’t get smart.”

“Dean.  Did you not _call_ him on his _phone_?”

Dean gaped.

“You idiot,” Sam said, reaching for his own phone and hitting #2 on the speeddial.  “You’ve been _praying_ this whole time?  Oh man-- Cas!  Cas, thank God.”  On the other end of the line, Cas sounded distant and disoriented.

_“Sam, you heard my prayer.  Thank you, thank you.  I don’t deserve--”_

“Cas, where are you?  Are you okay?”

Dean came into the room, leaned on the table, beer forgotten.  Sam put the phone on speaker and set it on the table.

_“I’m not sure, I - I’m okay.  But I’m not sure where I am.  Help me, I don’t know what to do.  They’re all -- they’re all -- it’s my fault--”_

“Calm down, Cas.  It’s gonna be okay.  Can you get here?”

_“I -- No.”_

“Okay.  We’re gonna come get you, but we need to know where you are.”

Dean leaned in.  “Cas, you sure you’re okay?  We saw--”

_“Dean?”_  

Dean shrugged at Sam.  Sam nudged the phone toward Dean and sat back.  Cas was still alive and finding that out had given him some energy, but Cas had asked for Dean and that was permission to stand down.  He blew out a breath in relief.

But Cas didn’t go on.  Dean rolled his eyes.

“Uh, yeah?”

There was a muffled sound on the other end of the line.  Cas didn’t respond for long enough that Sam was worried he’d dropped the phone or passed out or--

_“Sam.”_

The word was drawn out in agony or despair and it hurt Sam’s heart to hear it, and that it was directed at _him_ was worse.  He and Cas were friends, but they didn’t have what Dean and Cas had.  Sam would always be _the abomination_ to Cas, and when Cas accepted him as a friend, tried to help him, it was always _in spite of_ that, and always for Dean’s sake.  And Sam was okay with that.  He had earned no better than that.  He had earned much worse.  Sam looked up at Dean to find his brother similarly surprised.  (And that hurt too, let’s be honest.  No one expected Sam to be the one someone would turn to for help.  He couldn’t even help himself.)

Sam swallowed and blinked and realized several seconds had passed.  He licked his lips and leaned forward.  “I’m here, Cas.  I need you to follow some instructions.  Are you in a safe area right now?”

_“I believe I am.”_

“Okay, then I need you to turn on your GPS.”  He talked Cas through turning on his phone’s GPS while Kevin retrieved his laptop from where he’d left it at the little study table in the other room.  “All right, Cas.  I want you to get to a road and stay put.  We’ve got your signal and we’re going to get to you.  It looks like you’re a couple hours from here.  And don’t worry if you need to move to stay safe.  We’re tracking you.”

There was a sound on the other end of the line, something Sam was reluctant to label a sob, because that would mean Cas was crying, and that wasn’t a good sign at _all_.  

_“Okay.  Okay.  Thank you, Sam.  I’m so glad you’re alive.”_

The call disconnected.  Sam stared at the phone.  His eyes watered.  

_I’m so glad you’re alive_.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys get into a car and drive, fight some bad guys, and then drive some more.

 

Chapter Two

 

Dean drummed on the steering wheel, sang to the rock, tried to ignore the lump in the passenger seat who refused to meet his eye or sing along or crack a smile.  Dean didn’t want to think.

Beside him in the passenger seat, Sam shifted.  He was staring intently at the phone in his hand, tracking Cas’ signal even though it had stopped moving almost as soon as they’d gotten on the road.

“What,” Dean said.

“What?”

“That’s what I said.”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “What are you asking, Dean.”

“You been quiet since we got on the road.”

“Yeah.  Well, unlike you, I am capable of being quiet for fifteen minutes at a time.”

Dean whistled.  “Okay, just settle down.  Don’t have to be a dick about it.”

"Sorry.  Sorry.”  Sam sighed and slumped further into the seat.  He stared out the window.

Dean shook his head and kept his eyes on the road.  Fine.  If Sam wanted to be close-mouthed about whatever was bothering him, fine.  That was just the way Dean liked it, so he could just -- or maybe no he couldn’t, because suddenly Dean was watching him crying desperately in a church perfumed with the scent of blood and sweat and sick and hope, that he had only ever let Dean down and that he didn’t deserve Dean’s love and then he turned away with his bleeding hand outstretched, and Dean almost pulled the car over right there to vomit along the side of the road.

Instead, he glanced back over at Sam, now leaning on the door with his forehead in his palm, and he opened his mouth to try to say something, because it was clear things couldn’t go on the way they had been doing them for however many years now.

But Sam spoke first.   “I don’t want to talk about it, Dean.”

Dean raised a brow and shut his mouth.  “I wasn’t going to,” he said then.  And he regretted it, because Sam looked away out of the window and he thought Sam had probably wanted him to fight him on that, he had probably wanted Dean to _want_ to talk.

Dean sucked his teeth and stared at the road spinning away before them, spit out again behind them.  Passive aggressive asshole.  They passed another highway sign and it occurred to Dean--

“Hey, are we still headed the right way?”

Sam looked down at the phone in his hand and then away out of the window again.  “...Yeah.  Why?”

Sam wasn’t a great liar.  

“Because this is back toward the church--”

Sam shifted in his seat again and didn’t look at Dean.  “Seems that way.  Maybe Cas headed back there hoping to find us.”

And Dean thumped the steering wheel in sudden realization.  “Crowley!”

“What are you going to do?” Sam said softly.  He looked into his lap, shoulders sagging.  Jig up.  Secret heart desire uncovered.  What the Hell, Sam.

“Kill the son of a bitch, obviously.”  He threw Sam a glare, then back to the road.  This was going to be a fight.  He should have known.

“Dean.”  Sam turned to him then and shook his head.  “Please don’t.  Please.”

“What, you got a soft spot for the dude who tried to kill everyone we’ve saved?  The dude who _killed_ Sarah?”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut at her name but when he opened them again, he was handling it, shoving it down like a good little Winchester.  “Dean.  You weren’t there.  You went off on your mission with Cas, and -- you were _right_ to.  I’m not arguing that, but you _left_.  You weren’t there watching him get more and more human.  It’s not _your_ blood in him, you didn’t hear him crying because of it.  Okay?  You weren’t _there_.”  Sam was breathing a little rough, a little hard, had gotten himself worked up.  

“No, I wasn’t there,” Dean agreed.  “But he’s a demon, Sam, the King of Hell.  Who even knows how long your little cure will last!”

“Little cure?” Sam laughed, bitter.

“Sorry, but you didn’t get the job done.  He’s still a demon, Sam!  And he’s killed - _untold_ -”

“You don’t think I know that?  I know.  And he knows.”  Sam stared in front of himself, and his shoulders were shaking with something, whatever - fury, or maybe he was just upset.  And when he gestured to himself, it felt to Dean like it was an accusation of failure or a knife he wanted to stab through his own heart, and it was just Sam Sam _Sam_ desperate and Dean was suddenly not sure either of them were handling it like Winchesters anymore.

“He asked _me_ how he was supposed to begin to ask for forgiveness.   _Me_ , Dean.  And I couldn’t tell him.  I didn’t know the answer.  And you’re right!  I _didn’t_ get the job done-!”

“Can we just be glad about that?  Jesus, Sam-”

“No!  We can’t.  We shouldn’t be glad, Dean.  I failed.  And he’s there now, suffering in a way _I_ can understand, and I owe it to him to finish it, to figure it out and cure him, because he _wants_ it.  We’re supposed to _save_ people!  He wants to be _saved_ , Dean, and he was supposed to be -- he’s possibly the only good thing I’ve ever--”

“Okay, don’t get all dramatic!” Dean snapped, eyes on the road.  Jesus.

Sam shut his mouth and stared out the window, heaving breaths.  

Dean blew out a breath.  “We’re gonna figure it out.  But if the cost is your life, then no.  Sam, no.  Crowley can suffer for eternity as a demon with a conscience for all I care; you aren’t giving your life for it.  Just, no.”

Sam was quiet.  Sulking.  Little brother sulk.  It was refreshingly endearing, because Sam was always just Sam, lying or addicted or just inscrutable in his motivations -- Sam was still just Sam.  Sulking because he saw the gray area where Dean wanted only black and white.

“Listen,” Dean said.  “I hope to God you were lyin’ about Crowley being the only good thing you’ve ever done.”

Sam didn’t answer.

“Remember that time when we were like I don’t know, fifteen and eleven, and I was laid up from that hunt in the mountains, uh...”

“The Juniper House job, up on Merit Point.”

Dean raised his brows.  “Yeah, I guess.  How’d you--”

Sam shrugged listlessly.  “Hunt in the mountains when I was eleven and you were hurt.  Where else would it have been?”

“So you remember what you did to cheer me up.”

Sam didn’t turn to him.  “No.”

Dean laughed.  Sam was still sulking, and it was kind of nice.  “You remember everything _but_ this?  Jeez.  So I’m all laid up in bed after a - might I say, extremely heroic rescue of the cabin manager’s daughter.  You remember her, right?  Whew.  Lady, _please_.”

“Anyway-”

“Yeah, anyway, I’m laid up, moping and bored and Dad’s off looking for more work because let’s face it, you plus dad in a tiny cabin for a week--”

“Right.”

“Right.  So Dad’s off, and it’s just us, and you disappear into the little kitchen for like five hours.  Cursing and yelling and muttering and you wouldn’t tell me what you were doing, and then finally _finally_ you come out of the kitchen with this big pie tin and set it down on the table by the bed and handed me a fork and you were just so proud of yourself.”

Sam looked like he doubted the pleasant little moment had ever happened; he stared at the dash ahead of him and pursed his lips.

“Come on man, don’t you remember?  Apple pie, some recipe off the fridge someone left there before us.  You left the oven on and the fire alarm went off?”

Sam winced, then he smiled faintly.  “Yeah, yeah.  I remember this now.”

Dean grinned.  “Yeah?”

“Yeah.  You ate that whole pie.  I didn’t even get a bite.”

“Well, it was _my_ pie.  Anyway, I couldn’t let you have any.  It tasted like ass.”

“Hey!”

“What?  I didn’t want your ego to get bruised!”  Dean laughed.  “So?  That’s two whole good things you’ve done, right there.  We can still gank Crowley and you got this pie thing to fall back on.”

“Shut up.”  Sam looked ahead of them at the road and Dean thought he smiled there, just at the corner, he could see that little crinkle, maybe.  

“You really didn’t remember that?”

Sam’s maybe-smile faded.  “Not until you mentioned the oven thing.  I almost burned down the cabin with you in it.”

“Wow, well.  You are just _determined_ to be moody.  Fine.”

“It’s not--”  Sam sighed.  “Yeah, I guess.”

Dean strangled the steering wheel and growled.  Passive Sam was a frustrating son of a bitch.  “What do you want me to say, Sam?”

Sam shrugged and leaned his forehead back into his palm.

“Headache?” Dean asked.

Sam shook his head.

“Then what?”

Sam shook his head again, and then his jaw clenched and he was breathing through it, whatever _it_ was.  Dean slowed and angled to the shoulder and Sam threw his hand out to Dean with his head still turned away.  Dean rolled his eyes at the hand flailing bonelessly into his arm.  

“Don’t - don’t stop.  I’m fine,” Sam gasped.  He leaned forward, folded in on himself, then heaved a big breath and sat up again, dropping his head back against the headrest where it lolled and he was wheezing with the effort of getting through it.

“Sam?”

“Fine, I’m fine, Dean.”  Sam dug into his pocket and tipped a couple of pills from a bottle into his palm, tossed them both back.  At Dean’s look, he said, “Tylenol.”

“Thought it wasn’t a headache.”

“It is, and it isn’t.”

“Well that’s nice and vague--”

“Want an in-depth, detailed list of complaints, Dean?  Deal with it.  My _bones_ hurt, okay?”

“Okay, settle down.”

“I’m gonna -- do you mind if I--”

“Only if the next words out of your mouth aren’t _take a nap_.”

Sam smiled at him drowsily, sorrowfully, with that puppy-eyes look that melted tough old ladies and heart-hardened arresting officers, then he dropped eye contact.  “Dean, I -- I’m sorry I -- This isn’t--”

“Don’t worry about it, Sammy,” Dean sighed.  “I’ll wake you up when we’re there.”

“Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

From what he could tell, Sam didn’t actually sleep on the trip.  Whenever Dean looked over, he was blinking sleepily, and maybe he had dozed.  Yeah, Dean was going with _dozed_ , because it was easier than admitting Sam just didn’t want to talk to him anymore.  Sam didn’t want to do anything anymore, especially when it came to talking about their shit, and who ever thought _Dean_ would be the one not on board with that?  

But the fact was, he had hoped that after these trials were over, he and Sam could get back to being him and Sam, talk out their bullshit, get back to work - what was left of it after the demons had been sent to their rooms without dinner.  Just be brothers again.  Like before.  He had even planned to talk out the whole _not looking for him in Purgatory_ thing, keep an open mind, and put it behind them.  For real.

So Sam had _dozed_ , Dean was going with, because _Sam pretended to sleep for most of a two hour car ride to get out of making talkies with his brother_ didn’t have the same ring to it.  Dean pulled Sam’s phone from his limp fingers and doublechecked the little glowy that meant Cas to see that Cas had moved and was just a bit further on the road, probably _at_ the little church, and Cas and Crowley, huh?  That was all kinds of going to be interesting.

Sam stirred a little, possibly sensing the gravel under their tires instead of blacktop, or maybe because he was awake already and it was a good time to pretend to wake up.  But as they drew closer to the little church, Sam leaned forward to peer through the 4:00 am dark.

“What the... Are you seeing this, Dean?”

Dean threw him a look.  “Yeah,” he said, like _duh_ , then pulled the car to park about a hundred feet away from a church that was maybe a little on fire, surrounded with the swirls of black smoke.  “What the hell--”

“Crowley,” Sam said and fumbled with the door handle to topple out of the passenger side.

Luckily, Sam was a gangly newborn baby deer and that gave Dean time to get out of the car and hold Sam back from racing toward the fire.

“He’s a friggin’ _demon_ , man, come on and think for a second.  He’s fine.”

“But--”  Sam paused, brows together and looking like he was trying to suss out some memory.  “Cas is in there.”

“What?”

“He’s in there, I know it--”

“Well.  I’m sure angel boy can handle himself.  But you are not goin’ in there, okay?  You can barely keep your lungs in your body as it is.”

“Get _off_ , Dean, we gotta go.”  He jerked himself out of Dean’s grasp and turned wild eyes on him.  “If Cas fell, like the others, he -- what if he needs us, Dean?  He can’t, I can’t let him, I just--”

And damn but if Sam couldn’t turn on a dime.  From wet noodle who could barely keep his head up to about four hundred pounds of muscle when he wanted to be, and he shoved Dean aside and jogged toward the inferno.

Dean blew out a breath and reached back into the Impala to snag his and Sam’s guns from the glove compartment, and the angel blade, then sprinted after.

That thick black smoke wasn’t from the fire.

They came at it from the back, where one of the walls had partly caved in over the little minister’s lodgings behind the chapel.  The cave in had actually stabilized another wall which leaned dramatically inward, so Dean judged it safe and handed Sam his gun as they got into position to scope out the scene.

Sam, of course, started for the center of the sanctuary where they’d had Crowley tied up, but he stopped when Dean smacked him in the arm.  It was too smoky to see what shadow was a person and what was a demon, and Sam _had_ realized this thick chunky smoke was _demons_ right?

But now Dean saw what Sam had seen, a body on the floor between pews near the aisle, an unconscious body, unfamiliar.  A woman in her twenties, groaning.  Before Dean could let go of Sam’s arm - _finally behaving, Sam?_ \- her body convulsed and the thick black smoke burrowed in through her mouth and she was up again, stalking through the orange lit smoke that _was_ from the fire.

“Shit,” Dean said, and he hit Sam on the shoulder because Sam had spaced out, staring up as the high steepled ceiling whorled the flames upward.  Sam jerked back to the present at Dean’s touch and he looked back at Dean like he was surprised to see him, and then he shook his head and coughed into his elbow and got himself back together.

“They’re repossessing the bodies after their friends get killed out of them,” Sam said after a second.

“Kinda seems that way, but-”

“But how is that possible?”  Sam gripped the demon killing knife.

“Took the words right outta my mouth.”

And then they heard it, the low incantation of exorcism, grumbled out and then a scream and the whirl of black smoke being blasted back to Hell.

“That wasn’t Cas.”

“They’re here for Crowley,” Sam said at the same time, and then Sam was off, dodging through smoke and around fire, and the ceiling was creaking and lit ashes were spiralling upward from the burning hymnals and Sam was racing to his death.  Again.

Sam dove and slashed his way through demons; Dean brandished the angel blade he’d swiped from their small collection and took down two.  The black swirls darting around the ceiling were just waiting in line for their turn in a meatsuit, but they didn’t -- _couldn’t_ get into the ones Sam and Dean were putting down.  Just all the rest of them who fell around them victims of exorcism, who popped back up again like puppets to throw themselves at the problem.  Which was, if the smoke would friggin’ clear -- exactly, Dean suspected, where his brother had also thrown himself.  Where where _where_ \--

And then Dean heard it.

“Out of my way, Moose!”

Crowley’s grumbling British snarl, that stupid nickname that made Dean’s hair stand on end.

And Sam’s strangled cry, and then a crash, and then that low exorcism again.  It wasn’t Sam’s voice, Dean was sure, but he listened for the updated words anyway, just to be certain - but no, the old one, the real one, the one that just sent the bastards packing.

And then, impossibly, an angel’s voice, chanting in Enochian, something shorter, something sweeter than Latin - the Enochian exorcism that always seemed like a secret.  

And the clouds of smoke whooshed out of the way for just one long moment, and Dean saw them there in the far corner, lit in orange and gold.  Cas on the floor, bleeding from his head somewhere within his hairline, hand out, mouth working.  Crowley standing up, in front of him, both hands out, grumbling that low Latin, and Sam, shaking his head where he was slumped against the wall.

 _Sam_.

Dean surged forward, fighting his way toward them, toward Sam.  Sam saw him coming, yelled something, Dean lurched forward to dodge whatever was behind him, then spun to kill it in the face with the angel blade, and then he was hurdling broken burning pews to make it to Sam.

But Sam’s eyes were wide as he stared at Dean, and he shrank back against the wall, and Dean only had time to assess that he was uninjured before spinning to defend their little corner against the onslaught.  In front, Crowley, performing these lightning fast exorcisms that by all rights should have taken him out as well, and on the floor at Crowley’s side, Cas mumbling in Enochian and what the _hell_.

“Nice of you to make it!” Crowley yelled.

“We were in the neighborhood!” Dean yelled back.

“We have to retreat!” Cas called, ever the pragmatist.  Course, of the four of them, he was the one with honest to God military experience.

“No shit, Sherlock!”

“I’m _Cas_!” he said, totally serious.  He looked at Dean like Dean might be the one with the head injury.

“Sam, you okay?” Dean called over his shoulder.  He spared a look when Sam didn’t answer; Sam looked like he was drowning, mouth open, brows together, watching the swirling flames overhead like he was trapped -- well, they _were_ trapped, so there was that, but still.  “ _Sam_!”

Sam snapped out of it - maybe.  Who knew.  But he blinked at Dean and coughed, and gasped his lungs into working and grabbed up his knife, and he stood warily, shakily.  Shook his head hard and then pulled the bandage from his palm and turned away into the corner.

“Sam!”

“Just cover me!  I have an idea!”

“Oh good, an _idea_ ,” Dean yelled, heaving his way through another, already mutilated body.

“Shut up!”  Then Sam was beside him, cradling his bleeding palm; the stitches Dean had laid in so nice and straight had been sliced open.

“Sam-”

“I’ll be right back.”  Sam was off again, panting through the smoke, sidling his way along the wall and trying not to attract attention.

Dean turned to Crowley, who shrugged but shouted his Latin that much more loudly, and Cas on his other side worked hard to yell as well, although it was clear now the angel had been injured.  Either way, they were drawing attention away from Sam, and Crowley elbowed Dean _hard_ and nodded toward Sam’s retreating back.

Dean didn’t need to be nudged twice.  He hated to let Crowley out of his sight, especially with an injured Cas, but Sam needed backup, and Dean wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.  Thrice.  Whatever.  He took off after Sam, following the muffled sound of coughing, trying to avoid flames and keeping an eye on the creaking ceiling, and frankly this was just the worst situation ever.  When he caught up with Sam, Sam was just backing away from a bloody smudge in the northwest corner of the church and was heading toward the southwest corner, and Dean thought he understood what Sam was trying to do, if not _why_.  He caught up and took Sam’s elbow; Sam startled, surprised to see he’d followed, maybe?  Or probably just expecting to have been found by a demon.  But his mouth fell open and his brows went up, and he smiled and Dean smiled and patted him on the back and they went off again.

In the southwest corner, Dean turned to cover Sam; Sam got as close as he could to the smoldering crackling wood -- thick and sturdy and it was raining too, which helped keep the fire from spreading too quickly -- to slap his hand down on the floor and chant some Latin.

Dean backhanded an errant demon too close to their position and stabbed her through the head.  She fell to the ground and Dean tugged Sam away.

The southeast corner was nearly as undamaged as the northeast one Cas and Crowley were drawing demons toward.  Their little plan of distract had worked as long as Sam and Dean were on the other side of the church, but now demons were swirling into any of a dozen and a half  discarded meatsuits in a mountain in front of the song and dance of Latin and Enochian.  Not far enough from Sam’s ragged grunting effort and wincing face and coughing hack, and when Sam took off for the middle of the room, he was suddenly attempting to outrun like four meatsuits intent on his throat.  

Dean took out two who had apparently forgotten he existed, but--

Sam went down with the other two demons on top of him.  Dean launched himself, went down on top of _them_ , and Sam managed to twist around enough that they pulled off what Dean would later glamorize as a synchronized ganking that coulda scored a perfect ten, you know, not counting the asshole German judge.  Dean left Sam on the ground to do his thing while Dean covered him, but the Cas and Crowley show had lost its appeal, and suddenly Dean and Sam were getting swarmed in the center of the room.

“Watch it, you cooey titmouse!” Crowley yelled, and Dean turned just in time to watch Crowley shove Cas out of the way of a demon that had leapt at the angel.  Then as Crowley was exorcising the shit out of another demon who had its hands around his brother’s throat, Cas was exorcising the one Crowley had just saved _him_ from.  Cas swooped down on the demon knife Sam had dropped and came up for air back to back with Dean.

“Hurry up, Sam!”  Dean slashed across an assailant.  Beside him, Cas took out another.  They whittled down the number of available bodies while, on the other side of Sam, Crowley was exorcising two demons at a time, looking the worse for wear, and in the center of the room, Sam was struggling with a demon who had given up trying to kill him and had focused just on holding Sam’s bloodied palm back and away from the center of the room while Sam strained toward it.

Soooo, at least _someone_ other than Sam knew the plan.  Dean cursed.  But that fight was on Sam; no one could get away from the battle to help him without becoming demon chow.

_But Sam wasn’t strong, and he wasn’t armed, and he really wasn’t ready to be fighting this hard, this soon, goddammit._

And then Sam gasped in pain, from the corner of Dean’s eye, Sam’s whole body jerked -- something had happened, and that was enough.  There was no use defending Sam’s position if Sam was dead, and if Dean died but Sam got it done -- whatever the plan _was_ thanks very much -- that would have to be enough.  So Dean turned his back on the flailing demons reaching for his throat, and sound evaporated for him, except for Sammy’s ragged breathing, Sammy’s grunt of pain as he pushed forward there with the demon on his back, arm pinned up and awkward, bloodied palm trapped behind his back.  Time slowed.  Dean rushed for the demon, but Sam lurched forward, suddenly 400 lbs of muscle again _because he needed to be_ , and he --

\-- spat blood onto the floor in the center of the church and murmured Latin again, and the demons --

\-- scattered, funneled to each of the four corners Sam had marked with his blood.  

Their meatsuits dropped to the floor.  A pretty blonde seventeen year old here.  A nice looking older gentleman in a sweatervest.  A mom, probably.

And Crowley wavered on his feet and dropped to his knees then.

And Cas looked at Sam with his mouth open in amazement.

And Sam heaved breaths there on the floor, wheezes and coughing and his forehead sank to the plankwood and he looked at Dean and he smiled a bloody toothed smile.

And then he was out cold.

And time sped back up, and Cas helped Crowley out of the burning building, and Dean hoisted his baby brother up and out, out of the burning building.  Why was it always a burning building?  Why was he always carrying this kid out of a burning building?

 

* * *

 

Cas leaned Crowley up against the car.  Sam was laid out on the ground, because there was nowhere else to lay him at the moment, but it was raining and Sam was basically perpetually sick and this was just really not Dean’s night.

“Sam?” Dean said, patting his cheek.  He’d already done this shit once tonight.  “Sammy you gotta come back to me.”

Sam cracked his eyes open, blinked a little, then made a face.  “Think I broke my friggin’ arm.”

“Dislocated shoulder.  You’re fine now.”

Sam laughed.

_Right.  Fine being relative._

“Can you get up?”

“I think so.”  He wheezed and put up his other arm for a hand up, and then he was sitting his back against the car, looking up at Crowley.  “... Hey.”

“Howdy, Moose.”

“So... You’re welcome.”

“Thanks.  You’re welcome, too.”

“For...  Right.  Thanks.”

“We have to get out of here,” Cas said.  “They’ll be back.”

“Dean?” Sam said.

Dean was thinking.  “Fine, for now we’ll do it your way.”  He leaned in toward Crowley, snarled a lip.  “But I’m watching you.  You so much as--”

“I know, I know.  If I so much as tousle a little hair on his head, you’ll blahblah.”

Dean made a face.  “I’m not worried about Sam.”

Crowley looked surprised.  “Maybe you should be.  He’s still got the only keys to the kingdom, love.  He might even be higher on the hit list than I am.”  He looked down at Sam.  “Don’t worry.  I’m not jealous.”

Dean hung a hand down for Sam to grab onto and hoisted him to his feet, where he wobbled but managed to maintain balance.  If nothing else, Crowley could maybe expand on this whole hit list thing, and of course if they wanted to close the gates afterall, Crowley was the shortest distance between two points for as long as Sam’s blood kept him a fluffy kitten.  That was Dean’s story and he was sticking with it.

Nothing to do with Sam’s grateful half-smile as Dean helped him into the passenger seat.

Not at all.

The ride back promised to be annoying.  Crowley couldn’t help sniping, and Dean couldn’t help responding, and when he tried to get Sam to back him up, Sam said “Knock it off or I’ll turn this car around,” and he rolled his head toward the window and heaved breaths and it took the wind right out of Dean’s sails, and Crowley shut up too, and Cas was left looking between the three of them, biting his lip.

So it went for the first thirty minutes of the drive back to the compound.

Dean broke the silence then, because he kept sneaking looks at Sam, who kept scrunching his face up and then relaxing, and it was clear he wasn’t asleep but that he needed it.

“Cas,” Dean said.  “Why don’t you take Sam here on home-?”

“No,” Sam said.  “I’m good.”

“But-”

“I’m not leaving you alone with Crowley, Dean.  Come on.”

“What?”  Dean looked in the rearview to see Crowley grinning.  “You can trust me, Sam.  I mean, as long as he keeps his trap shut.”

“Just - No, Dean.”

“Fine.”  Dean glanced over at Cas in the rearview then, to see if he could signal the angel to get a hand on his brother and whisk him out anyway, because Dean didn’t mind being an untrustworthy asshole if it meant Sam could get into his bed that much sooner.  But Cas was looking forward, focused on the back of Sam’s head, brows pinched in worry.  Dean rolled his eyes and gave up on psychically linking with Cas.

“Hey,” he said then, and Sam winced at the sound.  “Why don’t you try to sleep?  For real.  I know you didn’t get a wink on the way up.”

Sam blew out a breath and glanced at him, apology in his face.

“Look, it’s okay dude.  There’s some whiskey in the glove compartment if you need a belt to put you out.  It always worked when you were a kid.”  Dean grinned as Sam reached for and found the flask.

“Very funny, Dean.”  That half-smile again.  Sam looked at him as he took a pull from the flask, and then the little half-smile faded.  His brows came together and he swallowed the burn of the liquor.  “You weren’t kidding,” he said, recapping the flask.

Dean laughed.  “Hey man, it worked.”  

Dean catalogued the full on grin, counted it a success.  

“Yeah, I guess it would,” Sam acknowledged with a laugh.

“Man you used to cry.”

“Shut up.”

“My teddy bear is sad because he didn’t get ice cream!” Dean mimicked.

“Teddy bears are serious business, Dean!  Terrible things happen when they are refused softserve, okay?”

“That’s what you said back then too.”

“Because it’s true.”

Dean grinned.  Sam was honest to God smiling like it wasn’t friggin’ 5 am and they weren’t covered in soot from a burning church and bloody from a fight with untold numbers of demons and a handful of humans.  Like they didn’t have an angel and a demon in the back seat.  Like they were brothers who had never lied to each other, like they’d never beaten each other down, like they’d never chosen anyone else.  Like they’d never forged ahead into certain death even while the other begged and cried and pleaded for it all to stop, stop, because it wasn’t worth it.  It wasn’t worth losing Sam.

“You guys are too bloody sweet,” Crowley cooed from the back seat.

“Shut up, Crowley,” they said in unison.  They looked at each other.  Crowley lost his shit laughing.

Ten minutes and another belt of whiskey later, Sam was asleep.  For real asleep.  Lightly snoring, head lolling asleep, in the passenger seat.  Dean suppressed the urge to ask Cas what had happened after he left Dean at the church, because he didn’t want to risk waking Sam now that his brother was finally sleeping.  So instead, Dean tried to catch Cas’ eye and give him a reassuring smile or something.

Cas, for his part, left off watching the back of Sam’s head for all of five seconds to finally acknowledge that Dean existed, and when he met Dean’s eye, Dean’s good mood evaporated.

“He’s not okay,” Cas said.

“Keep it down, will ya?” Dean hissed.  Suddenly catching Cas’ eye meant nothing, catching Cas with a reassuring _something_ wasn’t enough, because Cas wasn’t Dean’s backup now.  Cas had asked Dean to come with him when Sam had needed him at the church.  Cas had wanted Dean to come with him when Dean asked him to take him _back_ to Sam at the church, when Sam was going to _die_ \-- never mind that Sam hadn’t cared about that little detail.  Cas had broken Sam’s head just to mess with _Dean_.  And that was _before_ the whole God complex.  Cas could damn well suck it.

“He’s not okay,” Cas said again.  Did the guy not get the hint?

“I know,” Dean said.  “Heal him or shut up about it.”

Cas looked sad.  Sad little angel dick.  “I can’t--”

“I know.”

“Bloody hell,” Crowley whined.  “You precious princesses done angsting yet?  Let’s wake Moose back up.  He’s at least fun to torment.”

“Crowley,” Dean growled.  “What’d I say-?”

“Trust me, darling.  I can torment him without mussing his little lion mane.”

“No one torments my little brother but me, got it?”

“That wasn’t the deal.”

“I don’t remember signing anything.  But I _do_ remember letting you sit in this car against my better judgement.  Behave.”

“You’re no fun, love.”

“Get used to it.”  Dean glanced over at Sam, watched a muscle in his cheek twitch there, the hands in his lap twitch just once, and then Sam was still again.

And then a moment later, he wasn’t, and he was shaking his head and his mouth was working, and he was pushing back with his feet on the floor one hand streaking along the window, the other out in front, pressing himself back into the seat, head into the headrest, eyes still closed, still asleep, until he wasn’t and he was gasping something that might or might not have been a word but was definitely a protest, a cry, and he was staring at the dash and breathing hard, and doubling over and fumbling his hand into Dean’s arm to say _I’m okay, I’m okay, it’s okay._

“What the hell, Sam?”

“I’m good, I’m good,” Sam said.

But he wasn’t good, not yet, still breathing through it, holding back this keening noise Dean could hear start then stop as Sam bit it back.

Dean put his hand on Sam’s shoulder to steady him.  “Hang in there, Sammy.  We’re still over an hour from home.”

“You know, I could, if you want-” Crowley said.

“What,” Dean snapped, looking up at Crowley in the rear-view.  “Bampf my little brother back to your secret lair?  I don’t think so.”

Crowley struck his hand to his chest.  “I’m injured to the heart!  Didn’t you see me swooping to your little angel’s rescue back there?”

Cas stuck his finger up.  “I saw it.”

Crowley gestured to him.  “See?  I’m like a regular old anti-hero now.”

“Forget it, Crowley.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be tucked away in your widdle beddy-bye, snookums?” Crowley said, cooing at Sam.

“Shut it, Crowley,” Sam said, but it was a raspy, bitten thing.

“You’re the boss,” Crowley said.  “Maybe we can stop for ice cream, then?  I mean if there’s no rush.”

“I believe there is a rush,” Cas said.

“We are not stopping for ice cream,” Dean said.  “Nothing’s open.”

“How convenient,” Crowley drawled.

“It’s five in the morning.”

Cas frowned.  “Is this sarcasm?”  He leaned forward between Dean and Crowley, his elbow on Sam’s seat.  “Are you employing sarcasm?”

Crowley laughed.  

Dean rolled his eyes and glanced at Sam.  Sam was huddled against the passenger side door, quiet but heaving those breaths.  Dean shook his head at Cas in the rearview.

“No, Cas.  We’re totally serious about the logistics of stopping for ice cream.”

“Because I have come to appreciate ice cream, and I believe it’s useful in creating good cheer.”

Dean gaped.  Crowley whooped in glee.  “Yeah, yeah it’s great for cheer,” Dean sniped.  “Man how have you survived Earth for thousands of years?”

“I’m basically immortal, Dean,” Cas replied.  “Or, well--”

“I get it.  Can’t work a microwave or get a joke, but can survive disasters and war.”  Dean shook his head.  “No.  We aren’t stopping for ice cream.”  He stuck his finger up in the rearview and Crowley shut his mouth.  “No.”  He frowned back at the road.  “What are you laughing at?”

Crowley’s brows went up.  “I’m not laughing.”

“You guys are hilarious,” Sam said, still balled up against the door.  His shoulders were still shaking, but Dean thought, maybe.  Yeah.  The little shit.  He was laughing.  At them.

“Because of the sarcasm,” Cas guessed sagely.

Sam snorted, and he leaned forward in his seat to laugh some more.  “Ow.  Ow.”

“You okay there, chuckles?” Dean said, maybe ready to laugh as well, because Sam’s was infectious, but really -- “It wasn’t all that funny.”

“Are you kidding?  You’re like a _mom--_ ”

“See, Moose brings laughter wherever he goes.  Knew we shoulda woke him up sooner.”

Sam laughed again, louder, gasping a little, and there was a point, Dean couldn’t pick it out, but there was a point where it became not a giddy gleeful thing, but instead a somewhat terrifying uncontrolled thing, just this high little giggle, and he pulled the car over with a jerk.

“Sam.”

Sam grinned up at him, laughing.

Dean stared at the blood on Sam’s face and did not smile.  “Dammit.  Cas, take my brother home now.”

“Dean, I--”

“Dean,” Sam said, tittering.  He lolled his head back against the headrest.  “Cas can’t take me home.  Cas can’t do anything.”

Dean frowned, taken aback.  He turned in his seat to look at Cas, who stared at Sam, stricken.  After a moment, with Sam laughing and apparently oblivious to the blood sluggishly working down from a nostril, Cas shook his head and said, “He’s right,” and that was all Dean needed.

“Fine.  Fine.  Crowley, now.  And if you so much as--”

“You're crystal.  Where?”

“39N, 98W.  There’s a back door.  Call me.  I’ll--”

But Crowley’s hand was on Sam’s shoulder and they were gone before Dean could finish his sentence.  Dean pulled out his cell phone.

A moment later, the call came in from Sam’s phone, and he hoped, but it was Crowley talking, and Dean was directing him to the compound, to the “loading dock” entrance that Sam and found and said, “I have to call Kevin to let you in. -- No shit, he’s going to -- Listen, Crowley, I don’t care.  You can drop him off outside if you want to.  But he’s in a bad way, and he for some _stupid_ reason thinks you’re worth it.  So if you’re serious about this justice league crap, you can prove it. Step inside the door to meet Kevin. -- Yeah.  There’s a trap.  -- Well, you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you.”

Dean hung up and dialed again.

“Kevin, calm down.  Yeah, it’s Crowley.  Yeah, no shit.  -- No, I get that -- Look, he’s with Sam okay, and Sam’s -- you need to follow my directions to let him in -- because the whole place is warded against demons -- I don’t have time to explain this to you, Kevin.  You can take a swing at me when I get back.  Just open the damn door and get my brother from Crowley  --  Do it or so help me, Kevin -- Okay.  Good.  Oh, good.  Kevin, don’t -- don’t -- because he’s my goddamned brother you little -- fine.  Fine.  I’ll be home in an hour.”  He pulled the phone from his ear and yelled, “Don’t _kill_ each other you little assholes!” and hung up and strangled the phone.

From the backseat, Cas said, “Should we stop and get ice cream?”

 

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a family meeting, and Cas is Cas, and Dean is Dean, and Sam is a little confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long one this time, forgive me. No good stopping point other than the one I had planned for all along. Thanks to Caladrius and TrippyPeas once again.

 

 

Episode 901

“Earth Angel”

Chapter Three

 

He had planned on two hours to come up with something to tell Kevin.  He remembered checking the time, his wrist flopping around like a dead fish in front of his face, to see 5:43 am blearily staring back at him.  And he remembered swearing vividly and attempting to stand, only to find himself almost taking a header into the mud in the back -- the _back_ _door_ of the bunker --

And Kevin’s face when he saw Crowley, and Sam thought he remembered being dumped into a rolly chair, and he thought he remembered someone yelling and sobbing and he thought he remembered saying --

_Kevin, please, please, I don’t know how to make this better for you, but we need him, I need him--_

And then he didn’t remember saying anything else, or seeing anything else, or feeling anything else, not until Dean was shaking him awake with a cold cloth and this worried look on his face like _Come on, kid, you gotta stop this_ , and Sam didn’t know what _this_ was, but he was going to stop, sure.  Anything, because that look on Dean’s face -- he hated that look.   _But come on, Dean, it’s 6... 7 in the morning and I’m so tired and I just need to sleep.  Aren’t you tired?  You are, I can tell._

When he sat up, he was on the couch.  The rolly chair he remembered -- that was real.  It sat nearby, and of _course_ \-- Crowley couldn’t come in past the trap, and Kevin couldn’t lift Sam, obviously, and wow, how out of it had he _been_.  

But Dean’s face went from worried to angry in like a second flat once he saw Sam was awake and coherent, and he made that face like he knew Sam was lying --

But he wasn’t lying, was he?  He gazed up at Dean, at that look on his face, and blinked slow and tried to think.  He wasn’t lying this time, right?  Caught in that twilight space, between knowing and hoping, remembering and inventing, a feeling he knew too well from --

He gasped awake fully then.  Another flash of panic across Dean’s face and then it was gone again.  Sam heaved huge breaths and took the cool washcloth from Dean’s loosing grasp.

“I’m fine,” he said, and immediately regretted it.

“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Dean growled.

“What else is there to say?”

Dean watched him a moment.  “All right.  I just woke you up to get you into bed.  Come on, allie-up.”

Sam gave him an arm, his good arm, let Dean haul him to his feet, but he was okay, he was okay, he was stable.  He pulled his arm out of Dean’s hands experimentally, and Dean allowed it, sensing maybe that Sam wasn’t trying to be rebellious, he just needed to test himself, get a measuring stick on this thing trying to kill him.  Dean watched him.

“You good?”

Sam nodded.  “Yeah.  Yeah.  Listen, Dean--”

“I got this,” Dean said.  “Crowley’s on lockdown in the trap by the back door.  I’ll keep Kevin off him.  Cas is moping around.  You go to sleep.”

Sam’s brows came together.  “Really?”

Dean squinted at him.  “What’d you think I’d say?  You’re dead on your feet.  Go to bed.”

“Okay--”

“But Sam?”  Dean waited for him to look back, and Sam saw that danger in his face.  That _I know you’ve been with that bitch, Sam_ smile.  That _now I know what your heaven is_ crinkle at his eye.  That look that said _I’m making nice because if I don’t put effort into it, we’re gonna have a fist fight on our hands._  “When you wake up, you and me?  We’re gonna have a Talk.”

Great.

 

* * *

 

He woke up with a start, the smell of sulfur, burning meat, god the smoke --

Sam sat up and ignored the dizzyness in favor of patting himself down, grounding himself in the present, reality, the bunker, and yesterday, maybe it was yesterday, he’d spent the day with a demon, blood, yes, he remembered.  He was all there.

Okay, now he could permit himself to react to the dizzyness.  But he only wobbled a little toward the sink on the wall, brushed his teeth, spat out the pink, dressed himself.

Upstairs, the smell of sulfur turned out to be eggs, and not actually very sulfury, and the smell of burning meat turned out to be bacon and sausage.  And the smoke -- Cas trying to help Dean cook.

Sam laughed and startled both of them.

“Oh good, I didn’t miss breakfast,” he said, wrinkling his nose at the disaster in progress.  “Lucky me.”

Cas dropped what he was doing -- literally, cracking an egg, dropped it right on the floor, Dean swore roundly -- and came toward him.  “You have, in fact.  Yesterday.  How do you... _feel_?”  He squinted.

Sam quirked a brow and leaned back from Cas, who was invading his personal space, trying to … sense him or something.  Sam looked up at Dean for help.

“Don’t ask me,” Dean said without even looking up.

“He’s been keeping me away from your room,” Cas said, casting a look back at Dean that made the whole thing feel like he was _tattling_ on him.

“Uhm...” Sam said.  “I’m sure he had his reasons?”

“Yeah, like you’re a freakin weirdo stalker,” Dean called, then he poked his head out of the kitchen and shrugged dramatically while Cas’ back was turned.

“I’m merely concerned,” Cas said.  And then he blinked, and his eyes were wet and dark and his face was flushing and Sam left off leaning comically out of Cas’ space to take him by the shoulders.

“Hey.”  He ducked to catch Cas’ eye.  “Hey.  You okay?”

Cas nodded.  When he blinked, tears streaked down his face, just the once, and he seemed surprised and distressed by them, but he wasn’t sobbing.  He wasn’t even making a noise.  “I don’t,” he began.

“It’s okay.  It’s okay.  We’ll figure it out.”

“Figure what out,” Dean growled.

Sam looked from Cas to Dean, back to Cas.  “You didn’t -- You haven’t -- I’ve been out for like an entire day and you haven’t talked about this?”  Dean looked off with a huff; Sam could see the excuse about to roll off Dean’s tongue.  “What have you been doing this whole time?  Playing house?”

“I have been putting out fires while you’ve ‘been out’ because I knew you’d want to be part of this conversation, Sam!  Believe me, I’ve been using the time to make a comprehensive list of questions I want answered.”

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but snapped it shut again when he saw Crowley skulking around the corner, edging out from behind the bookcase that stood sentinel to one side of the opening between the library and the war room.  Sam made his way toward the kitchen so he could say to Dean without being overheard:  “Uh, Dean?”

Dean leaned out to follow Sam’s sidelong look, then rolled his eyes.  “Cas ain’t your only stalker,” he said in a low gruff.

“I thought you’d have him under lock and key--”

“I _did_.”  Dean curled a lip at Cas, who’d followed Sam toward the kitchen, and went back to scrambling eggs.  “Swimfan over here kept letting him out of the trap.  Easier just to let him roam.  But I had to salt your bedroom door to keep him out of there.  What is _up_?  You throwing off some mating musk or--?”

Sam shrugged.  “Don’t look at me.  I have no idea--”

“Yeah right.”  Dean turned his back on Sam to pour the eggs into the hot pan.  “Then explain to me why Cas said he did it because you wanted him to.”

“What?  Dean--”

“Whatever, Sam.”

Sam threw his hands up.  “You know what, I give up.  I’m goin’ back to bed.”

“Sam...” Dean said, conciliatory and sighing.  He turned back halfway, stirring the eggs.  “Don’t.  Come on, you’re rested, your color’s good, seems like you might have an appetite. Sit down.  I got eggs.  Bacon.  Sausage.  Your favorites.  Don’t bitch out just because you don’t like the question.”

Sam frowned, narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips.  Good ol’ Dean, pick pick pick.  “No, bitching out actually seems like my best course of action.  Thanks anyway.”  He turned, but Cas blocked his path.

“Dean, wait,” Cas said.  He was looking at Sam again, that strange look in his eye -- like he couldn’t believe Sam was standing there, like he was afraid that if he blinked, Sam would disappear.  Sam shifted uneasily under Cas’ gaze.

“Uh, Cas,” Sam said.  “Why would you say--”

“What is he doing out of the trap!” Kevin called from across the library.  “I thought you said -- I thought we agreed--!”

“Okay, just settle down--” Dean started.

Crowley turned toward Kevin, but he backed away with his hands up, into the conference room, toward Sam.  Sam got the crazy idea he’d try to hide from Kevin behind Sam.  “Hang on,” Crowley said.  “Moose wants--”

“You don’t know what he wants!” Kevin said.  “No one knows what Sam wants.  Not even Sam!”

Sam blanched.  “Wait--”

“Wait just a goddamned minute--” Dean said.

“Ooooh yeah, here we go,” Kevin said dramatically, swinging across the library.  “Hands off the fragile delicate flower--”

“That’s it,” Dean said, brandishing a spatula.  “You’re cut off.”

Sam furrowed his brow.  “You’re _drunk_?  It’s like nine in the morning.”

Dean quirked a brow at him.  Kevin hauled himself to a stop.  Cas and Crowley exchanged looks.

“It’s nine at _night_ , Sammy,” Dean said.

Sam shut his mouth.  Sank into a chair.  “Oh.”  He gestured to the kitchen half-heartedly.  “But--”

“Breakfast for dinner.  Your _favorite_ ,” Dean said.

“That’s _your_ favorite, Dean.”  Sam scrubbed a hand over his face.  So... not two hours, not twenty six hours, but... like, almost forty?  He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again.  The room tilted.  So disorienting.

Kevin swam over to him, face all sad.  “You okay, flower?  Hard to sleep through everything, huh.”

Sam blinked at him.  “Kevin--”

“Leave off--” Crowley started, and Kevin spun toward the demon, jabbing a finger at him.

“You don’t get to talk!  You’re lucky to be walking around!”  Dean said something, Sam wasn’t paying attention, just Dean grumble, words Sam knew because he’d heard them, so many times -- _accuse accuse leave if you want parry deflect jab_ and Kevin said something like: “I’m not letting that bastard run me out of my home again!” and Sam realized his hands were covering his ears and he felt lightheaded.

_\-- leave if you want -- but you can’t you can’t, I got you, you aren’t going anywhere.  Oh believe me, Sammy.  You aren’t going anywhere.  You will never leave this place._

“Stop,” he said, breathless suddenly, standing, backing away, but Dean was saying, “Okay, _enough_!  That’s _enough_!  Family meeting.  NOW.”

That woke him up.  Dean’s voice, gruff and loud and harsh and visceral.  That was real.  He blew out a breath, and he was present again, and he was tired of the fighting.  As tired as Dean was, apparently, and he’d only been awake for like ten minutes of what must have been hours of bickering and yelling.  “Great,” he said. “I’ll get the beers.”

Kevin growled as Sam walked past him toward the kitchen.  “I don’t wanna be part of your fracked up family!”

Dean just laughed.  “Well let’s see here.  Demons killed your mom.  You’re saddled with angel crap you didn’t sign up for.  You have absolutely zero chance of ever having a normal life.  And you’re pissed at _us_ for all of that.  Yeah.  Welcome to being a friggin’ Winchester, kid.  Now sit your ass down.”

Kevin sat where he’d already been hovering, in the seat next to Sam’s vacated one, but he gestured toward Sam standing at the kitchen doorway.  “How come Sam doesn’t have to sit his ass down?”

Dean made a face.  “I ain’t the boss of him.”

“Can I get that in writing?” Sam said.

Dean threw him a look, and Sam laughed at the obvious _dude, I’m trying to handle things over here.  Don’t make me laugh in front of the kid,_ then went for the beers and popped their tops and heard:  “Listen Kevin, we’re the dads of this little ‘fracked’ up family.  You’re the kid.  Shut up and deal, Sabrina.”

Sam came back in and set a beer in front of Dean.  “Those were her aunts, not her moms.”

“What?”

“Are you thinking of Nicole Bradford from My Two Dads?”

“Those guys weren’t brothers, just friends.  And they hated each other.”

Sam dropped back into his chair next to Kevin and sipped his beer, looking the kid over appraisingly.  Then he shrugged.  “Sabrina it is, then.”

Dean grinned, and he took a nice pull from the bottle Sam had set in front of him, and then he signalled to Cas and yanked Crowley out of a daze that had him staring at Sam -- and thanks Dean for that, because ick and wow -- and the three of them went into the kitchen.

Kevin wrinkled his nose at them leaving.  Sam looked at him, then back at his beer.  Kevin nudged his arm with his elbow, muttered _hey_.  And Sam saw then that Kevin was glowing pink with drunk, and then he fixed Sam with those dark sincere eyes and he said, “Dude, I’m sorry.  I’m wasted.  I don’t really think you’re a flower.  I just don’t even.”

And Sam quirked up half a grin, because the kid had been through a lot, and who could blame him for getting drunk off his ass to deal with something Sam and Dean could barely deal with even after a lifetime of training for it?  And he wasn’t wrong -- Dean treated Sam like glass half the time, and like a problem that needed fixed the other half, and if Kevin saw that and resented it, who could blame him for that either?  If only Kevin knew how suffocating and abrasive it felt to be _managed_ like that, he might not feel so left out.

And apparently, quirking half a smile was enough for the kid, because Kevin launched at him then, a big drunk hug that Sam didn’t have time to figure out how to return before Kevin was pulling his hands back to himself and putting on a business attitude just in time for Dean to come back into the room with a panful of scrambled eggs which he set into the middle of the conference table.  Cas followed after with a platter of bacon and sausage.  Crowley had been entrusted with the plates and forks.

“Eat up,” Dean said.  “Then, I got some questions need answerin’.”  He waggled a little notepad in full view of everyone.

Like, really?  Breakfast for dinner and a family meeting, and Dean’s little notepad where it looked like he’d actually written down questions, like, an agenda?

What even was his life anymore?

The food tasted like -- well.  The half a forkful of egg he’d tried tasted like he had expected.   _Bone and ash, hail and horror, abyss and rot._  He nibbled bacon, he cut up a sausage and pushed it around the plate.  Dean frowned at him from across the table while Cas and Kevin bickered, and Sam knew he hadn’t fooled his brother, but he couldn’t find it in him to eat up like a good little soldier either.  

But Dean didn’t push him about it, not this time anyway, and Sam resolved to try his damnedest next time, and to maybe invest in those taste-free protein bars which would hopefully taste like cardboard and not carcass.  It was worth it to try.  He told himself that.  He was almost convinced.

It was worth it.  It was worth it.  Always worth it _worth the agony the lingering taste an afterthought to salvation oh the bliss oh the torment oh the strangeness worth it worth it--_

“All right shut it!”

Dean’s voice from the end of a long tunnel, but suddenly _there_.  Sam gasped at the tabletop.  When he looked up, he found himself the center of attention.  The plates were gone, even his, and the pan of eggs and the platter of bacon and sausage and now Cas and Crowley had beers and Kevin had a whiskey and Sam’s own beer hadn’t been touched and _had he lost time?_ and now he felt sick, so sick--

“I’m fine,” he said, swallowed it back, the nausea.  

“Yeaaah,” Dean drawled.  “We’re gonna get to that.”  He produced his notepad and a pen.  “Okay.  First.”  He pinned Crowley with a stare.  “How did you get free?”

“Your good friend Cas here let me loose--”

“Not earlier today, smartass--”

“I assumed you meant at the church.  Cas came round, we had a glorious tear-filled heart to heart about our feelings of abandonment and hope for the future and boys we find oh so dreamy, and then he let me out.  Oh, and there were demons coming for my hide.  So.  You know.”  Crowley tipped his head at Cas.  “Ever a sportsman, this one.”

Dean grinned humorlessly at Cas and muttered, “That’s about what I thought.  Okay.  ‘Why didn’t Crowley’s...’” he read, “Oh, yeah.  Why didn’t your exorcism affect _you_?”

"You locked yourself in, didn’t you?” Sam suggested.

Crowley offered up his arm with the sleeve pulled back.  Dean peered at the mark burned into the flesh there like he might recognize it and Sam wasn’t annoyed.  It’d been like seven, eight years, and Dean didn’t have to look at it every morning in the shower.  He offered his own arm with the sleeve rolled up, the same circle scar, his own with a straight slash through where Bobby had freed him from Meg.

Dean curled a lip at the sight of it, memory sufficiently jogged, but nodded.  “Right.  Okay.  And these demons, they’re after you because...?”

“Abaddon wants me out of the way so she can rule Hell,” Crowley replied.

“Rule Hell?  Can’t she just -- I don’t know.  Sit in the big chair with you gone?”

“She’s a knight, love.  She likes to follow the _rules_.”  Crowley leaned back in his seat and preened.  “Just another reason to keep me around, safe and sound.”

Dean made a face and moved his mouth in mimic, _safe and sound_ , but he checked the question off all the same.  “Wait.”  He looked back up.  “What makes you so sure Abaddon sent them?  She seems like the hands on type.”

“Oh, she is, the little minx.  She stopped round for tea, had a nice chat with Moose and me.”

“Abaddon showed up at the church?  And you were gonna mention this when?” Dean asked, turning on Sam.

Sam shook his head.  “I handled it, Dean--”

“Clearly, you didn’t--”

Crowley interrupted.  “Handled it better than you did, you spineless cockless mollycoddle!  Running off with your BFF and leaving your dear sweet ‘helpless’ brother behind to do the heavy lifting!  Do you even know _how_ to take out a knight of Hell, oh captain my captain?”

“Dean,” Sam said, quiet but apparently it was enough to shut Crowley up and thank god, because Dean was so red in the face the resulting aneurysm might have taken all of them out in the explosion.  “I did my best.  She smoked out, she was gone.”

“Damn straight, you did your best,” Crowley crowed.  It was odd, to feel kind of pleased that a demon was so proud of you.  “Little whore tossed him throw a window.  I thought we were goners.”

“The stained glass window,” Dean said.  Sam saw the picture clicking into place for him.  Dean nodded then, and shook his head, and he said, “You can stop cheering him on.  I get it.  And it’s creepy.  So knock it off.”  He made a new note and turned to Sam.  “Okay, how’d you get her to smoke out?”

“Doused her in Holy oil, lit up her meat suit.”

“Holy oil, huh?  Okay then.  That’s goin’ in the book.  Good job, Sammy.”

“Thanks.”

“Well gee, don’t bask in the praise or anything.”

“Sorry.”

Dean rolled his eyes and blew out a breath and scanned his list.  “Okay... Next.  Cas.”  He turned to Cas to regard him, then said:  “What the Hell, dude?”  He paused.  “That’s it.  That’s the whole question.”  Cas was quiet.  “Aaaaand, go,” Dean prompted.

Cas shrugged.  “I -- What happened --”

“We saw the light show.  I assume Naomi was actually telling the truth about Metatron.”  Cas nodded.  Dean continued.  “So what happened?”

“It wasn’t trials.”  Cas looked at Kevin, who nodded.

“I didn’t see anything about a Cupid’s bow or a nephilim or anything.”

“It was... a spell.  When I returned to Heaven, I found Naomi, dead.  Metatron had killed her, and he was waiting for me.  He overpowered me, and...”  Cas put his hand up to his throat in some memory, and Sam frowned.

“Cas?”

“Ah...”  He faltered, lowered his eyes to the table and his composure broke.  “He--”  The desperation in it echoed the phone call they’d had; Cas sounded broken, lost.  “I can’t--”

“It’s okay,” Sam was saying, but Dean said, “Cas, we can help you, but only if you tell me everything that happened, right now.”

Sam squeezed his hands into fists.  “Dean, lay off.”  

Dean turned to him.  “Sorry, Sammy, but we gotta know what happened if we’re gonna clean up yet another mess.”

“I can’t,” Cas said again.

“Does it have anything to do with you refusing to teleport Sam’s sorry ass back here the other night?  Or was that just Cas being Cas again?  Playing his ‘mysterious ways’ card, _again_.”

“I understand that you’re upset,” Cas started, voice wobbling.

“Dean, knock it off,” Sam said.

“No, Sam.  Don’t you get it?  He chose that bastard over us.  He knows how evil those feathered sons of bitches can be!  Hell, _he_ screwed us over countless times!  Don’t tell me you forgot.  What.  Did he shake your marbles loose again?”

“I didn’t forget, Dean,” Sam said, shaking off the barb.  Dean could be _mean_ when he was angry, but that’s all it was.  Anger.  “How do you think you’re going to get a straight answer when all you can do is place blame?  Haven’t we been here before?  Where did it get us?”

Dean looked at him, and Sam wasn’t sure what part of what he’d said had had an effect, but Dean deflated completely after a moment of staring.  “Okay.”  He pursed his lips and looked at Cas and plastered on a smile.  “Cas.  Why don’t you just walk us through it, step by step.  This is a safe space.”

Sam rolled his eyes at the obvious sarcasm, but Cas brightened a bit, having -- right, taken Dean at his word.  Because Cas didn’t get sarcasm.  Oh Cas, poor literal Cas.  This isn’t a safe space, buddy.  Don’t believe him.  Walk on eggshells, tell half-truths, that’s the way to survive Dean Winchester.

So Cas started his story again, and when he got to the part he’d faltered at the first time around, he blinked and there were tears on his face and he touched them and he looked at the wet fingertips and he stopped again and said:  “I don’t understand.  I don’t understand anything.  It’s gone now, and I’m not heavy enough, I feel like I can’t stay on the ground, and--”

“Whoa, whoa, Cas,” Dean said then, and to his credit, his anger had evaporated, at least from the surface, and he looked concerned more than anything.  Like he looked those times Sam had looked up to find Dean in his face, the shower gone cold, his fingertips wrinkled, his head on fire.  Dean was worried Cas had cracked up.

“What’s gone, Cas?” Sam asked.  “It’s okay.  You can tell us.”

Cas looked at him, and he smiled and it was so painful, but Sam smiled back.  When Cas answered, it was on a breath, it was a thing not meant to be heard, it was an admission of violation, it was shame and revulsion and guilt -- “My grace.”

“Your grace?”  Dean swore.

“We’ll get it back, Cas,” Sam promised.  “It’s okay.”

Dean looked at Sam.  “You don’t seem surprised by this.”  Sam shrugged.

Cas frowned and tilted his head.  “I’m not sure I want it back.  I feel... so light.  And things make sense.  And I love you.  I love you both.  And I love you, too, prophet of the Lord.  And you, purest of demons.  I should be so confused about that, but I’m not.  Because.  Because.  It’s _gone_ ,” and despite what he was saying, his face crumpled and he brought his hands up to shield it and his shoulders shook.

Sam looked at Dean, who mouthed _love?_ and shrugged and made this _face_ , and Sam shrugged back like _don’t ask me_ , and Kevin looked terrified and uncomfortable.  Crowley drank his beer and watched, sympathetic.

“So...” Dean said, looking around like _do I have to be the one to keep this conversation on the rails, or... okay I guess I do._  “Your... grace.  That was the last ingredient of this spell that tossed the angels out of--”

“Yes,” Cas said.  “I have condemned them to eternity on this rock--”

“Hey,” Sam said, trying to joke.  But it was weak.  He barely wanted to be on this rock himself.

“Sorry.  But.  It’s no Heaven, that’s for sure.”

“Damn.   _Human_.  Damn.”  Dean stared at his little notepad, and then he shook his head and drank his beer.  “Damn.  Okay then.  So.  Breaking this spell goes on our list of short term goals,” Dean said, “and hopefully getting your grace back is part of that.”

“But I--”

“You don’t have to look at you right now, okay?  You’re a goddamn mess.  You want it back.  Trust me.”  Dean made a note.  “Okay, so that explains the lack of--”  He waved his hand.  “Teleportation.  And why you didn’t answer my praying.  That means healing’s out too, angel radio, finding us wherever--”

“I can’t do that anyway.”

“Finding them, then,” Dean said, waving toward Kevin and Crowley.  “Anything else?”

“Exorcising demons with a touch, exploring the vastness of created cosmos, overseeing forsaken experiments on long-forgotten planets, tending the gardens of Cerseia, seeing the full spectrum of electromagnetic radiation, hearing all frequencies, knowing the names of all the prophets, all the psalmists, all the seers, all the saints--”

“Okay, okay.  Show-off.”

“There is a thing I can do that I couldn’t before.”

“Oh yeah?  What’s that?  Cry like a tiny girl because of feelings?”

“Dean--” Sam started, but Cas said, “I can’t do that.  My vessel is a normal sized human male. No.  What I can do, is pray.”   He looked at Sam.  “I can pray to Sam.”

Sam frowned.  “What?”

“You heard my prayer, Sam.  You heard me praying when I was lost, forsaken.  You came for me.”

Dean looked at Sam with that look again, that _lie to me one more time, Sam, I dare you_ look.

“I swear, I have no idea what he’s talking about.”

“Why did you call me, Sam?” Cas asked.

“I was worried about you,” Sam replied.  “ _We_ were worried.  When we saw the...”  He gestured overhead vaguely.

“Yes, but why at that particular moment?  What were you doing just before?”

Sam frowned.  “Uh... sleeping, I guess?”  He looked at Dean for some confirmation, but Dean just shrugged and narrowed his eyes like he knew something Sam didn’t.   Sam raised a brow in confusion, but looked back at Cas.  “Yeah.  Sleeping.”

“Dreaming?”

“Uh... probably?  Cas--”

“What were you dreaming about?”

Sam shifted.  Then it flooded back to him -- the stench, the blood, Dean, weight, terror, agony -- He looked at Cas in shock; he felt faint.  “F-falling.  That was you?  No.  No.”  

“Yes, yes.”

“But how-- Why?”

Cas pinned him with a look.  “I’m still working that out.  The fact is, you heard me praying for you.  You came to me.”

“No, that’s not -- I’m not --”

Cas got up from his chair.  He turned his back on Dean’s protests and went into the library, stepped around the corner and out of sight.  Sam looked at Dean in question, and then choked on the incredible sense of shame and raw loss, a maw of confusion between agony and joy that threatened to swallow him, and then Dean was knocking on the table, straight up on his feet and reaching across to knock on the table in front of Sam, to get his attention, and how long had he been trying?  Because Sam blinked at him like he was coming out of a dream, and time sped back up to normal, and white fog fled from his vision and he was heaving breaths, and when he came back to himself, it was his own voice saying, “Stop, stop, please--”

“Damn it, Sam.”  Dean sat back down with a muttered curse and brought his bottle to his lips.  “It’s always something-”

Cas came back into the room.  “You heard me.”  It wasn’t a question, but Sam nodded anyway, feeling hollow and used.  “Because I prayed to you.”

“Jesus, what the Hell did you pray for?” Dean said, eyeing Sam.  

Sam caught Dean’s eye but could only hold it a moment before looking away again.  Yet another problem needing fixing, Sammy?  Yet another thing that can knock you for a loop, make you unreliable, a nuisance.  A _pain in the ass_.  

“For Sam to understand me.”

“S’not possible,” Sam said shakily.

“Obviously, it is,” Dean said.

“No.   _Obviously_ , Cas can get into my head.  But it’s not prayer.  That’s not possible.  I’m about as far from an angel as you can get.”

Cas sat back down at the table.  “Factually debateable,” he said.  “But more importantly, conceptually false.  You have the purest blood at this table, the virgin included.”  Cas nodded at Kevin, who blushed bright.

Sam stood.  “Yeah.  I’m done.”

“Sam,” Dean warned.

“Nope.  I’m done.  I need to take a walk.  You know how to get me if you need me,” he said, pointing his beer at Cas.

“Sit your ass down,” Dean said.  “We aren’t finished here.”

“ _You_ aren’t finished.  I am.”

“I got questions for you.”

“Well I don’t have answers, okay?”

Dean sighed and he looked off for a moment.  When he looked back, he’d lost the anger, the look on his face that Sam hated so much, that _stop lying to me_ face.  Now it was all _Sammy, let me help you.  Sammy let me understand.  I got you little brother._  Sam had no defense for that face, so he put his hands on the back of his chair and he propped himself up there and he gathered himself together there.

“You have answers,” Dean said, _reassured_.  Like he was a skittish animal.  “I’m not tryin’ to accuse you of anything.  I’m just gathering info.  Okay?”

“Fine.  What.”

“First, I wanna know what that was back at the church.  That blood and Latin thing.”

Sam pursed his lips.  Yeah.  Yeah, okay.  He did know that answer.  “It’s called _Quattuor angelos Dei_ \-- ‘The Four Corners of God.’  I found it in the Father’s journal, along with some other rituals, all stuff you can do with purified blood.  Mark out the four corners of the space, mutter some Latin.  Banishes all demons inside the area through each of the four blood-marked corners of wherever you are.”

“Okay,” Dean said, grinning.  “That is _definitely_ goin’ in the book.”

“Good job, Sammy,” Sam said, feeling bratty and bitter and maybe a little dizzy.

“That’s the enthusiasm I like to see.”  Dean scanned his list, and he looked up at Sam appraisingly.

Probably wondering whether Sam was up to answering the more difficult questions.  Would Sam buckle under the strain of having to tell the truth about something?  Would Sam lie to him again?  Would Sam leave again?  Sam closed his eyes and tamped down the annoyance.  Dean was... Dean.  He’d been about to make that argument to Kevin.  You can’t move Dean.  Dean’s a rock that is annoyed at everything, and if you have once lied to him, you have _always_ lied to him.  That’s just the way it is.  No coming back.

Which means that when he stays with you, it means he _really_ loves you, because he believes you’re lying to him and that you’re a bastard, and he _still_ can’t leave you.  He believes you are worthless, and he sticks around anyway.

It should have been a comfort.  But _you are worthless_ , and Dean didn’t always stick around.

“Okay,” Dean said, apparently having decided Sam could handle another question after all, or having decided he didn’t care whether it folded Sam up like a little origami bitch, or whatever.  “How are you sleeping lately?”

Sam stared.  “What?”

“You know.  It’s that thing where you pass out wherever you’re sitting and wake up in a panic.  That thing.”

“I don’t--”

“Sam--”

“Dean, seriously I--”

And then the phone rang.  Not Sam’s cell, or Dean’s.  Not Kevin’s or Cas’ or Crowley’s, and frankly, everyone _they_ knew was sitting right there around the table.

“We have a landline?” Dean said.

“I don’t know,” Sam said, befuddled.  “I guess.”

Dean got up and rubbed his hands together before picking it up.  “Y’ello?” he said, then he mouthed _this isn’t over_ at Sam.  “Oh, hey Garth.  Nice to finally hear from you.  Yeah, he’s here.  Safe and sound.”  Dean gave Kevin a thumbs up.  “What?  Where?”  He signalled for a pad and pen, and Cas brought him the notepad.  Dean scribbled on it, _mhmm_ ing and _ahaa_ ing and then he said, “What, _now_?  We’re a little tied up--”  While Garth yammered on, Dean looked over at the table, shaking his head.  “Sorry man.  Too much on our plate.  Can’t do it.  No, I know.  Let us know how it turns out, all right?”

He hung up.

“Case?” Sam said.

“Yeah, looks like maybe angel activity.”

“Where?”

“Few miles outside of town-- Sam, no.  Just no.”

Sam shut his mouth.  Then he took a deep breath, steeled himself for battle.  “Dean.  We have to handle this.  We have to clean up the mess.  That’s what you said.  And I gotta get out of here.”

“You need to get back to bed and get some rest.”

“I’ve been sleeping for two days straight!”

“Yeah, and _that’s_ perfectly normal!  Are you even listening to yourself?  We’re not on the case, and that’s final!”

“You aren’t the boss of me, Dean,” Sam said.  “Remember?”  Sam turned, got his bearings because turning made the room spin, just a little, but he was okay, okay, and he headed toward his room for his gun, his knife, his holy water, whatever, strong, tall, _himself_.  “Cas, you comin?”

Cas started toward him, then stopped.  When Sam turned to give him an encouraging look, he saw Cas was torn.

“Come on.  We can fix it, Cas.”

Cas smiled at him, a broken thing, and his eyes shone, and he said, “I would like that.”  He started toward Sam, and he tilted his head, and his eyes were hooded and dark.  “I’d like that very much, dear... sweet... Sammy.”

 

* * *

 

“What the Hell, Cas?” Dean said, sprinting across the space between the conference table and the little steps leading down to the bedrooms.  Sam sagged against the wall, staring at nothing, mouth open.  Like back in the burning church, only he couldn’t put it down to fire-jogged memories, all the burning houses that had shaped their lives, not this time, and Sam was staring at Cas, and then at nothing, mumbling under his breath and terrified and Dean’s heart _God Dean’s heart_.  Dean shoved Cas out of the way.  “I got ya,” he said, taking Sam’s arms to help him sink to the floor.

Sam looked at him, caught his breath, touched Dean’s face like he was so surprised.  “You can’t,” he said.  “You can’t you can’t--”  And then he was shaking his head, holding his breath, actively fighting against breathing, and he was clawing at Dean, or at something that wasn’t there, arching his back and what what _what_ \--

“Sammy, you gotta breathe, kid, come on,” Dean said.  “Don’t make me slap you.”

Sam strained his head to the side, squeezed his eyes shut, but Dean grabbed at his scrabbling hands, held them to Sam’s chest, shook him just once and then held him, held him, still still still and that got Sam to look at him.  God, the terror there.  Just, _Goddammit, Sam._

“Breathe.”

Sam shook his head.

“Breathe Goddammit.”

Sam breathed in.

“Out.”

Sam breathed out.

“In.  Out.  In.  That’s my boy.”

Sam breathed raggedly, in and out, and in and out.  He shook his head and he watched Dean and his mouth moved without sound, but he was breathing.  In and out.

Dean freed one of his hands from the mess of fingers on Sam’s chest so he could swipe the hair out of Sam’s face, and if he was maybe surreptitiously taking the kid’s temperature, so what.  And if tucking that sweat-damp hair behind Sam’s ear happened to reassure the kid that big bro was going to take care of him, and that everything was okay, and that they were going to figure everything out?  That was just a side effect.

Sam stared up at him, shaking breaths out of his throat like it was a chore, and that look, God it was terrible.  A hopeless thing, a bared soul thing, an animal thing.

“Dean,” Sam said.  “You gotta get out of here.”  

“It’s okay.  We’re safe here,” Dean said, _not_ rolling his eyes, because Sam was still staring at him, still breathing only when Dean did.  

Sam shook his head.  “No.  No.”

So Dean squeezed his eyes shut and put his hand on Sam’s head, because goddammit Sam.  And then Sam’s eyes slid shut and he was passed right the fuck out not even in his bed like a good little sasquatch, and Dean rolled his eyes and heaved him to his feet and dragged him down the stairs.

“All right, what the hell was that,” Dean said, back upstairs, advancing on Cas.

Cas blinked at him.  “I don’t know.  Are you suggesting I would intentionally hurt Sam?”

“All I know is he looked at you like you were...”  Dean shrugged.  Their list of “ultimate evil” included such defeated characters as Raphael, Lucifer, Azazel, King of Hell, Eve, Lilith.  He found he had no handy way to compare Cas to someone Sam might find truly terrifying.  “Like, a really sparkly clown.”

Cas looked confused.

“Nevermind.  What’d you say to him?”

“You were right there, Dean.  I just said that I’d like to help my brothers.  And I would.  We need to go on this mission.”

“I already said--”

“I know what you said.  But Sam is right.  There is nothing to be gained by sitting here--”

“I’m not leaving Sam like this.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Cas offered.

“You need to go help your little fallen cherubs,” Crowley said.  Dean hadn’t even noticed him sneaking up.  “I’ll stay with Marnie Moose.”

“Oh, _hell_ no,” Dean said.

“ _I’ll_ stay with Sam,” Kevin said, heaving a breath, ever the put-upon little AP student.

“We’re all staying with Sam.  I’m not letting any of you out of my sight, got it?”  Dean pushed through them, headed for the table where his blessed beer sat.  He sat there at the table and watched them.  

Eventually Cas and Crowley settled on the floor in the corner at the top of the stairs leading down to the bedrooms; they muttered between themselves and occasionally laughed.  It was hopeless to try to get them any farther from Sam’s room, which was all kinds of abnormal, like Dean was the best judge or whatever.  Still.  

Kevin took his whiskey and escaped to the library to resume work on the tablet.  Dean positioned himself at the far end of the conference table where he could see all three of them, and he poured through the pages he’d found spread across Sam’s bed one of the many times Sam had pretended to be asleep when Dean was checking on him.

And he supposed it was possible Sam had no idea he was waking up screaming, or that he begged in his sleep without words, that Dean could tell when he was faking because he was lying still, breathing steadily, looked relatively peaceful.  

It was _possible_ Sam wasn’t actually lying.  It was possible he just didn’t know.

Two hours later, Dean was stewing in Sam’s veridta research, wondering if the guy had found them a hunt or was just trying to catalogue, but whatever he was doing, these veridta things were creepy.  They also appeared to be extinct, so there was that.

The whine was thin, could have been the decades-old HVAC trying to kick on.  But wishful thinking, obviously.  Dean stood, joints creaking.  The bunker had gone quiet.  Kevin was in his room, a little thing Dean assumed was actually a broom closet, but Kevin seemed to like it and had painted anti-everything symbols all over the inside of the door.  So, that wasn’t reassuring.  Whatever.

Cas and Crowley had talked for an hour or so, but Crowley had gotten increasingly more upset the longer Sam stayed asleep, until he finally snapped and upset their checkers game and fled to some dark corner where Dean heard him occasionally babble to a Sam that wasn’t there, pledges and promises, questions and confessions.  So, that wasn’t reassuring.  Whatever.

Cas was nowhere to be seen.  Dean debated looking for him, ignoring the whine coming from, of course, Sam’s room, not the HVAC (wishful thinking).  But in the end, Cas could suck it, remember, and Sam had just full on collapsed after some panic attack thing, and now he was in the throes of some dream he wouldn’t remember when he woke up, but that was no reason to allow it to go on.  Unremembered torment was still torment, right?

So Dean went down the steps and down the hall and was, okay, not all that surprised to see Cas standing out there, a quiet shadow standing vigil outside Sam’s open door.  The door Dean hadn’t left open.  Because Sam liked his privacy.

Goddammit Cas could _suck it._

“Get a good show?” he growled.

“This is upsetting.”

“No kidding.”

Cas didn’t respond to that.  They watched the dark lump that was Sam in his bed shift a little, strain just a bit, murmur something, reach out a hand and clutch at the sheets.

“Dean.”

“Cas, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Perhaps not.  But you _need_ to hear it.”

“Nothing is more important than this, right here.  I’m not going on some stupid angel mission to help or whatever some stupid angel dicks--”

“My brothers and sisters, you mean.”

“Whatever.”

“I’m not talking about them.”  Dean didn’t respond.  Cas put his hand on Dean’s arm and said, “I’m talking about Sam.  I’m talking about what happened that night in the church.”

Dean turned to him, dragged him down the hall a few feet, out of direct view of Sam’s room and hopefully at least a little more out of earshot.  “What?”

“This -- it’s different than what was happening with the trials, right?”

Dean nodded.  “So?”

“And from what you described, something happened to him _after_ the glow in his arms seemed to dissipate?  Something that seemed different?”

Dean nodded again.

“Just before the angels started to fall.”

“Cas, lay it out man.”

“I believe something happened to Sam when my grace was taken from me.”

“Cas--”

“Something that also explains why Sam can hear my prayers.”

“I don’t -- But Sam had nothing to do with that angel crap.”

“Dean.”  Cas had the audacity to look impatient.  “This isn’t about the ‘angel crap.’  Sam and I are connected.”

Dean made a face.  

“Think, Dean.  Sam and I share something...”

Dean thought hard, and then--  “Oh.  Oh no, no, you’ve gotta be kidding.”

“My grace... it’s what allowed me to carry Sam’s Hell.  It’s gone, and I believe Sam’s experiences in Hell have been returned to him.”

Dean covered his mouth and looked back at Sam’s bedroom door.  “This can’t be happening again,” he muttered.  Hell, _Lucifer_ , on top of the trial crap kicking his ass -- oh, Sammy.  Jesus.

Dean took Cas by the shoulders, peered into his face for evidence that it was a lie.  Then he closed his eyes and used Cas to steady himself.  Blew out a breath.  Stood up straight and tall and strode toward his brother’s room, to wake him from a nightmare, and tell him it was only just beginning.

 

* * *

 

Cas pushed at Crowley’s shoulder.

“Come on.”

“What?  Where?  Is Moose all right?”

“He will be.  I hope.  Honestly, there’s no way to know.  But we’ve got a mission.”

Crowley frowned.  “But Squirrel said--”

“Sam wants us to pursue this mission.  They’re my brothers and sisters, and I did this to them.”  Cas extended a hand to Crowley, to help him out of the pile he’d made of himself in the corner, by the sofa, between it and the bookshelf.  “I would like your assistance.”  He looked around, embarrassed.  “With travel.  And other necessities.”

Crowley grinned and took his hand up.  “So I’m the muscle, am I?”

“My hope is that we can manage this without bloodshed,” Cas said.  “But... Yes.  Sam wants this,” Cas said again.

“You had me at Sam Wants This, Part One, titmouse,” Crowley said.  “But won’t Dean-o be on our case as soon as we set foot near the door?”

Cas watched him, attempted to keep the waver out of his voice.  This had once been so easy to do, this kind of deception, this kind of manipulation.  This kind of willful distraction.

“Dean has been taken care of.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean babysits while Cas and Crowley embark on an angel hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This /was/ a long one, but I broke it up for you. There will be one chapter left after this, and that'll be that for episode 1. Hurray! Subsequent episodes will be shorter, or else. [shakefist]

Episode 901  
“Earth Angel”  
Chapter Four

 

Dean gave in.

His little brother couldn’t sleep more than a couple of hours without waking up gasping, and every single friggin’ time, Sam looked so confused to see Dean sitting there with a cool damp cloth, so irritated with him for _mothering_ him like he was an invalid.

But Sam didn’t know what it sounded like.  Sam didn’t have to listen to himself strangled and muttering in his sleep.  So Dean just frowned into his face, tried to put water and protein down his throat, and was sometimes able to get him to just go back to bed.

Dean gave in to worry, and now he had a chair in Sam’s room, by Sam’s bedside.  And he slept there in that chair for an hour and a half, like _total_ , and he thanked his lucky stars that Team Sam upstairs had kept to themselves and left Sam alone for--

He checked his watch.  Nine whole hours now, sitting vigil.  Jesus kid.

“Those off-brand ones, no nuts, blue wrapper,” Sam said, voice raspy.

Awake again.  So started the routine.  Wake up, mutter, spin out of bed to try to get up, maybe get as far as brushing teeth.  Dean leaned forward, dropped the cloth over Sam’s face to smooth away the beads of sweat.  “What?”

“They taste like cardboard.”

“Yeah, I know.  They’re disgusting.”

Sam laughed, just a little.  “They really _really_ aren’t.”

“Right.”

“What’s wrong, Dean,” he sighed.  “You look terrible.”

Dean looked at Sam, at the exhausted mess, sweaty and shivering though Sam didn’t seem to realize it, eyes hollow, cheeks hollow.  “I really _really_ don’t.”

Sam closed his eyes.  “Just tell me.”

“I’m gonna fix this, Sam, I swear--”

“Dean!”

“Everything’s gonna be okay--”

“Dean, _please_.”

Dean stopped with his mouth open.

He swallowed.  Licked his lips.  Shook his head.  Nope.  He couldn’t do it.  He couldn’t be the one who did this to Sam.  Not after everything Sam had sacrificed.  He didn’t deserve it.  And Dean didn’t fucking deserve it either, okay?  He didn’t want to see right through his brother pretending everything was okay.  He didn’t want to pretend in return that he didn’t see Sam staring at Lucifer’s ghost over Dean’s shoulder.  He didn’t want to watch his brother tear himself apart faster than this time bomb in his head could manage it.  No.  No.  

Dean looked up to find Sam watching him, watching him shake his head sitting there in that chair, and the look on kid brother’s face was all betrayed and he nodded and looked away like, sure fine.  Don’t tell me, awesome.

Dean heaved a breath.  Fine kid.  But you’re not gonna like it.

“Do you remember what you’ve been dreaming about?”

Sam frowned at him, eyes immediately wet.  “No?”

“Sam--”

“Dean.”  Sam sat fully up, threw off his blanket, swung his legs to the opposite side of the bed from Dean, sat there on the side of the bed for just a moment.  For the last nine hours, Sam had swung toward him, one hand in Dean’s shirt to steady himself, get his bearings, gather the energy to stand.  But just now he was pissed, and that was okay.  “What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” Dean said.  “I just wondered if you...”

Sam heaved a breath when Dean didn’t finish.  “I don’t want to talk about it Dean.  I’m not … I’m not _lying_ , okay?  I just.”

Dean frowned at Sam’s back.  Yes, okay.  Sam’s lying had been an issue, and it had gotten them into trouble, _lots_ of goddamn trouble, sure.  But he wasn’t trying to _trap_ the kid, okay?  It was like Sam wanted to start a fight with him.  Jesus.

“Sam-”

“Dean.”  Sam sighed.  He shook his head at the bed, breathing.  Then his shoulders sagged.  “Just... bits and pieces.  Nothing coherent, okay?  Just right before I wake up, some flash of something that like, jolts me awake.  That’s all, I swear.”

He sounded beaten down.  Voice low and wrecked, lifeless, and Dean had _not_ meant to do this, not this time, not when all he wanted to do was wrap Sam up in a big clean white fluffy _something_ and promise nothing would ever hurt him, ever.

“But I can do this,” Sam said then.  His voice strong, his back straight, then.

Dean shook his head.  Sam didn’t even know what _this_ was yet.  

 

* * *

 

“What’s wrong with Moose?”

Castiel spared the demon king a sidelong look before continuing up the overgrown embankment.  “Why do you call him that?”

Crowley shrugged and tossed aside the corpse of a demon scout.  “You have _met_ Moose, haven’t you?  Ten feet tall, shoulders twice as wide as his hips, smushy nosey forehead wrinkley--”

“Sam is not ten feet tall.  Although you may be right about the rest.  You apparently pay attention to that sort of thing.”

“Like you don’t.  Don’t change the subject.”

Castiel frowned.  “It isn’t my place to tell you Sam Winchester’s status, physical or otherwise.  Please don’t ask again.”

“Alright, then tell me this.”  Crowley hauled Castiel to a stop mid-way up the embankment and gestured around them.  “What is this we’re doing?  Tell me that.”

They stood partway up a concrete embankment skimming the north edge of the parking lot of an abandoned shopping plaza.  It was six am, and the battleground was lit by the watery morning sun.  It had taken hours to find the location of the battle, because he’d only gotten the barest information from Dean’s terrible scrawled penmanship, and the hasty little circle on the map encompassed fifty miles in the field.  And of course, mere days after the “meteor shower,” all the signs that might have pointed toward angel or demon activity were obscured by the magnitude of so many celestial graces swooning toward earth in magnificence and horror, shrieking out in an amplitude Castiel couldn’t even imagine anymore -- but that was a spiral of thought he wasn’t willing to indulge.

So they had walked.  Or, vanished from place to place.  Either way, it had taken most of the early hours of day.

And now they approached the territory of shopping plaza that the small band of angels had secured, flanking it with a northern approach and taking out every demon they happened upon.

Castiel looked ahead.

“We’re on a case,” he answered.  “Sam wants--”

“Yes, I know that, thanks.  I mean, what are we meant to do about these angels?  Kill them?  The demons, yes, sure.  I’m in.  But--”

“I can’t just kill my brothers and sisters.”

“Not anymore, at any rate,” Crowley said.

Castiel frowned.  “You really feel no guilt about killing these demons?”

Crowley shrugged.  “They probably want me dead.  It’s a fair bet to say Abaddon has a price on my head.”  He looked at Cas.  “It’s not the same, you know.  These aren’t my brothers and sisters.  We were all just human souls at one point, tortured beyond the memory of ourselves, until we are something else entirely.”

“Then wouldn’t it be more just to give them the same treatment you received?  Allow them to be human once again?”

“I’m not human.”  

“You’re very close,” Castiel pointed out.  “These could be redeemed just as you have been.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes, then he turned toward the top of the embankment and started climbing again.  “Spare a drop of Moose’s blood on one of these filthy creatures, and I will end you.”

Castiel watched the demon ascend the slope.  His professed affection for Sam was understandable, if his story about what had happened in the church was to be believed.  And he had jumped in front of a demon to save Castiel’s life in the following battle, and he had put his own on the line, but it was hard to reconcile with the acerbic, strange man now waiting for Castiel at the top of the embankment.  In his head, Dean Winchester’s gruff voice grunted out _demons lie_ and Cas frowned and climbed up after Crowley.

He surveyed the field of battle grimly.  The parking lot was strewn with the marks of a fight, scorched asphalt, the hosts of at least three demons left to rot; he hoped that his brothers had exorcised those demons and that the mortals littering the lot had died from some other cause than angel blade or hand to hand combat.  He needed a plan of action.

Best Case: Demons are felled; angels are neutralized.

Acceptable losses:  Demon hosts, angels.

Conditions for success:  Sam’s trust and faith.

“We need a plan.”

“Oh, good.  A plan,” Crowley said.  “Any bright ideas?”

“I’m working on that,” Castiel said.  “First, we need to clear out the rest of these scout demons.”

Crowley rolled his eyes.  “Brilliant deduction, detective.”  He frowned, watching Cas expectantly as a chime rang melodiously from Cas’ coat.  “Well?  You gonna get that?”

Cas blinked in recognition and put his hand into his pocket.

 

* * *

 

“Everything’s okay.”  Sam nodded to himself.  “I need you to know that, Dean.  I need you to trust me, that everything’s okay.”  He turned on the bed toward Dean, and he was handling it.  Shaky, pale, but handling it, and he was waiting.  Brows up, mouth tight, doubting.  Hoping.  “Dean?  Please--”

Dean swallowed.  He was waiting for an _answer._ Right.  “I do, I trust you, Sammy,” he began.  

Sam stopped, mouth open.  Then he shut it, and he looked confused.  “You do?”

“Obviously.  I gave a whole speech about it.  Of course you were too busy drama-queening--”

“That wasn’t about trust, Dean.  That was about desperation.  And -- _drama-queening_?  You know what?”  He put up a hand, to forestall Dean’s complaint, because of course he knew Dean couldn’t just let that go, any of it, and if he thought it was _desperation_ (but wasn’t it?  Wasn’t it selfish desperate bargaining, Sam’s life for the lives of everyone his death might have spared?) -- Well.  

But Sam went on, after a deep breath, and after shoving it down:   “Look, I don’t blame you, okay?  But I need you to hear me, and, just this once, trust me.  All I can do is believe you, so... _when_ you tell me you trust me--”  He closed his eyes, like he was making a wish, and when he opened them again, he was like twelve years old, pinky swearing Dean not to tell Dad about the little ghost kid who lived in their motel room bathroom and only ever told dirty jokes.

“Please be telling the truth.”

Dean frowned.  “Okay.  Jeez.  Do I need to sign something in blood or what?”

Sam quirked his mouth up.  “That might help sell it.”

Dean rolled his eyes.  If Sam could joke, Dean didn’t have to get serious yet.  That was fine for now.  Whatever Sam’s little confession was, it was going to be long-forgotten when Dean had to pull the pin on the whole Lucifer thing, and if he could put that off, even a little?  Great.  Come on, Sammy, tell me about your latest scary dream.  Tell me again how your food smells like socks.  Hell, tell me you’ve been doing demon blood again just to keep your strength up -- although _fuck_ that idea, because it actually sounded like a good one, watching Sam’s thinning shoulders heave with fatigue there, the way he could barely keep himself sitting upright.

“I trust you, Sammy.  For real.  But you’re kinda freakin’ me out, so whatever it is.  Just lay it on me, okay?”

Sam regarded him for a moment.  Still deciding, maybe, whether Dean was on the level.  To be fair, Dean had abused those three little words in the past.  So maybe the kid had a point.  But then Sam took a breath and ripped the bandaid off.  

“I saw Lucifer.  Last night.  It’s okay, I’m okay.  But I need to be straight with you.  And I think, listen, I think--” he rushed in, to cut Dean off ( _but Dean wasn’t saying anything, couldn’t say anything no, he was supposed to have more time before this_ ).  “--one-time thing, because of that witch a few weeks ago.  The, uh--”

“Dude with the dog fetish, right.”

“You saw Hell too, didn’t you.”

“Listen, Cas--”

“Cas didn’t take the memories, Dean.  And he couldn’t heal me.  He took the _experience_ , right?  Which as far as I can tell, just means he took away the feeling that it had really happened.  But I remember it all.  I mean, it feels like a terrible dream I once had, or like it happened to someone else, someone in a story.  But it’s all still there.  And I guess, that witch’s spell just jogged a memory, but it was a one-time thing, I think.  I’m sure.  I’m _fine_.”

Sam was looking at him.  Looking at him for... uh... judgment?  Maybe some confirmation, waiting for Dean to say _of course, you’re right, one-time thing, never again, Sammy, everything’s fine._

“Sam.”  And he could tell it had been too bright, too tinny, too forced, when Sam’s reedy smile faded.  

“I’m fine, right?”   _Fuck_ he sounded scared.

Dean pressed his lips closed, felt his eyes water.  

Sam closed his and wetness streaked down his cheeks and he breathed: “I can’t do this to you again.  I can’t.  Just drop me off a bridge or something.  I can’t.”

He couldn’t do it.  Sam deserved better.  And while twelve year old Sammy was getting them both ice creams down the street, _that little bathroom bound ghost kid screamed and screamed and screamed when it burned._

“It’s okay,” Dean said.  “You’re fine.  One-time thing.”

 

* * *

 

It was quiet upstairs.  Sam had gone back to bed, but Dean knew he wasn’t sleeping this time.  Sam was shaking shoulders and thinking too much and who knew how fast it was all going to come down this time, and who knew when Sam would put two and two together and come up with “wow, Dean didn’t seem all that surprised, shit I guess he lied to me,” and Dean needed a break from holding back his own impending breakdown.  He went into the kitchen for a beer, caught sight of the notebook he’d written down “angel activity??” in and cursed.

Angels.  Cas couldn’t help, not the way he had before, but another angel maybe--

He banged on Kevin’s door before opening it.  Kevin frowned up at him.

“Seen Cas?”

Kevin shook his head.  “Not since they went out.”

“What?”

Kevin tilted his head and repeated himself, syllable by syllable.  “Not.  Since.  They.  Went.  Out.  You know, like, out.”

“Dammit.”

“You need a shower.”

Dean looked at him.  “ _You_ need a... shower,” he grumbled.  Slammed the door.  Growled his way to his coat where his phone was.  Jabbed at the screen.  Fumed and furied until the line picked up.

“Where the hell are you?”

 

* * *

 

“Uh, kind of in the middle of something here,” Castiel said.

“Get back here and pick me up!”

Castiel looked over the battlefield, a windswept abandoned car lot between two warehouses, pocked with the carcasses of empty food containers and the occasional discarded prophylactic, and populated with the ranks of some factions of angels and demons locked in battle, poking their heads out from behind rusted out Buicks to shout things at one another.  

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“I meant Crowley.  I’ll even go stand outside.”

“I know what you meant, Dean.  It isn’t possible.  Crowley is... otherwise engaged.  I really have to go.”

“Wait wait hang on.”

“How’s Sam?”

“He’s -- sleeping.”

Castiel rolled his eyes.  He understood now what the satisfaction value was in the act: a visual cue that signaled dismay and disbelief at another person’s actions that didn’t have to be taken too seriously.  Even across a phone line where Dean couldn’t witness it, it felt good.

“But how _is_ he,” Castiel asked again.

“He’ll be fine.  Soon, I’m hoping.  I need to ask you a favor.”

“Of course.”

“Send me an angel?”

Castiel detected lightness in the request.  In the background, he heard Kevin Tran singing some aria consisting of three high pitched notes that couldn’t possibly have been on key.  Ah.  A cultural reference.  He was inclined to laugh, but without knowing the context, he wasn’t certain whether to laugh cheerfully or groan in that pained Sam-way, which Cas had decoded to mean _that was a really terrible joke and I refuse to be genuinely mirthful about it, even though I am cheered greatly by your smile, and even though laughing with you is the thing I want most to do; I have decided not to allow myself that comfort._ Instead, he attempted his own joke.

“I’m sorry, Dean.  I don’t possess the correct postage for such a thing.”

Silence.

“Right,” came Dean’s voice.  “Just bring one home with you, okay?”

Perhaps he had said it wrong.  “You believe one of my brothers or sisters can help with Sam.”

“You did it once before,” Dean said.  “I don’t see why one of them can’t do it again.  I mean, they’re expelled from school, but they aren’t _not_ angels anymore, right?”

“That seems to be the case, yes.”

“I mean, Lucifer kept his juju.”

“Dean.”

“What.  I’m right, right?”

Castiel pursed his lips.  The likelihood that one of his siblings would possess the affection required to take on such a thing was slim, considering that the “water cooler discussion” on the youngest Winchester in heaven had been … less than positive.  Still, perhaps once the angel met the boy, had been filled in on the reasons Sam even needed the assistance in the first place -- well, nothing was a sure thing when the Winchesters were involved.  They had a way of changing one’s view.  Plus, Sam had those strange and expressive eyebrows that Cas had assumed God put on the animals he most wanted to be safe from harm.  Puppies, some cows, the most adorable kinds of monkeys, fluffy kittens, less fluffy kittens, the more sociable marsupials, and Sam Winchester.

“I will bring home the angel I believe will be most appropriate to your needs.”

“Thanks, Cas.”

“Is there anything else you need?”

There was a pause, then a short laugh, then Dean:  “What, like, do we need milk?  No thanks, honey.  We’re set.”

“No we’re not!” Kevin Tran yelled in the background.

Dean’s voice, muffled:  “Stop eating all the cereal you goddamned twelve year old!”

Castiel frowned at the phone.  “Dean.  I really have to get back to the battle.”

“Whoa, what?  You’re in the middle of a fight?”

“Yes.”

“Well what are you doing talking to me then!”

Cas hung up with another satisfying eye roll.  Stupid Dean, he smiled to himself.  What antics.  What humor.  What--

What gaping hole in the middle of his body that now seemed far too small and yet far too big at the same time, considering what he once had been, what he once had seen or done or felt, or not felt.  Oh.  Oh.  Lost lost, he felt.  But.  There was the catterwalling demon king of Hell, keeping up his side of their partnership, dispatch the demons, finish the mission, get back to Sam, help Sam, try to weigh that Hell in his heart against the guilt and shame, they might balance, they might outweigh each other and then where would he be?  Moored against the drifting; compass in his heart that always pointed down.  Or when he was down, pointed upward, and whether he was in the sky or deep within the earth, always pointed toward a Winchester.  Dean had always been his favorite, because he was humorous and because he was passion and plain, but it was Sam who had anchored him and saved him and given him this limitless belief, this whole heart, this heavy heavy thing to bear, this pardon and redemption.

So.  Bring an angel home it was, then.

So.  Change of plans.  

Castiel waited for Crowley to finish bashing together the heads of a couple of demon scouts.  The demon king was perhaps a bit too gleeful about the task, and Castiel resolved to look appropriately disapproving when he slunk back over to the little divot Cas had taken cover in for the purposes of unmolested phone conversation.

“New plan,” he said.

“Oh, we had an old plan?” Crowley spat back.

“Abaddon wants you dead.  These demons are likely to go for a trade in order to get you as an offering to her.  You’ll approach the angels, explain the situation, be offered in trade to the demons in exchange for leaving this place and the angels in peace.  Once behind enemy lines, you’ll take advantage of the element of surprise and take out the demon horde.”

Crowley blinked at him.  “Oh, will I?”  He turned back to survey the battle zone and shook his head.  “And your angel pals will believe me because...”

“You will passionately plead your case, explain the logic of the situation.”  Castiel took a deep breath.  “And because you will recite the security code of a higher ranking officer of the garrison.  They’ll know I’ve lost my grace, but they should also recognize me.  I’m... rather infamous.  The face of this vessel will be known to them, and the code should assure them that I am still the Castiel they know and not Jimmy Novak.”

“Who’s Jimmy Novak?  You know what, nevermind.  I don’t care.  Tell me why I don’t just pop over to the demon side and take them all out.  That’s element of surprise too.”

Castiel set his mouth in a determined line.  “Because we need the good will of at least one of these angels.”

Crowley frowned.  “Going to share, or should I just start menacing you?”

Castiel regarded the demon.  He could no longer sense the demon’s aura, not without his grace, but another sensation he thought might have been “intuition” tugged him toward the idea that Crowley was sincere in his concern for Sam Winchester.  “An angel could help Sam.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes.  “With...”  When Castiel didn’t continue, Crowley suggested:  “That certain itching burning sensation?”  The growl in his voice was a clue that Castiel interpreted to mean that the demon didn’t in fact believe that Sam had an illness of an intimate nature at all.  

Castiel blew out a breath.  “We’re wasting time.  If you want to help Sam, do as I suggest.  Take us into the angel camp.  It’ll be set up in that abandoned garden center on the hill there.”

“Out in the open?  Not very protected.”

“Lethaniel won’t be comfortable making camp in a dark dank hole--”

Crowley nodded toward the building structure.  “It’s an entire shopping plaza.  That’s hardly a hole, titmouse.”

“It is if you’ve spent your millennia in heaven’s vastness and infinite light.”  Castiel spared Crowley a look.  “These angels aren’t concerned about protection.  They’re concerned about advantageous territory, and they’ve got the high ground there.  That’s where Lethaniel will be.”

“Should I even ask.”

“Lethaniel is an old friend.  I think.  She should be amenable to our request if we can offer something in exchange.”

“Something like taking out all of these demons.”

“Yes.”  Or something like handing over the king of hell to do with what they wished.  Castiel supposed that depended on how successfully Crowley argued his case. Either way, angelic goodwill would be earned. 

Best case: Demons are felled, angels are neutralized, and the good will of at least one angel is won.

Acceptable losses: Crowley, Sam’s trust and faith.

Conditions of success:  Sam’s life.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's plan to save Sam is in the works, thanks to Cas' planning prowess. But is the cost worth it to Sam?

 

Episode 901  
“Earth Angel”  
Chapter Five  


Dean eye-balled the angry angel standing, hands bound, behind Cas.  She was dark complected and mean-looking, grey business suit, her sleek black hair in a bun.  Perfectly manicured but for the smudge of battle on her face.  “That was fast.”

“I had a plan,” Cas replied.

“Oh, good.  A plan.  Those always work.”

Cas smiled briefly.  “That’s the point of having them.”

“Well, lah di dah,” Dean said, turning.  “Come on, let’s get this little miracle cure on the road.”

“Ahem.”  Crowley fidgeted.

Dean rolled his eyes.  “Cool your jets, okay?  I’ll be right back.”

“This little feathered friend is here because of _me_ ,” Crowley said.  “Release me.”

“Deal with it.”

“I want to--”

“Oh, I know.  You want to see Sam.  You’re a creepy son of a bitch, you know that?”

“ _I_ _know_ there’s something wrong.  Cas wouldn’t tell me, but I know.  I can tell it from your face, Dean.  You’re afraid.  Something’s wrong with our little Moose.  I want to see him.”

“No.”

Dean turned and gestured for Cas and the angel to follow.  Crowley called out behind him, cursing, pleading.  But that dick would have to wait for Sam to let him out.

Cas pulled them to a stop in the main room, just before the stairs down to the bedrooms.

“Dean.  First I--”

“What are we doing here?” the angel said.  “I demand to know.”

“Quiet,” Cas said.  The angel looked at him like he’d grown a second head.  “Dean, you should know I have no idea whether this will work.”

“What?  Why wouldn’t it?”

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t try, but.  Aside from having to bring her along by force--”

“Yeah, great plan.”

“It wasn’t Plan A, I admit--”

“Plan A never works.  We usually skip right to Plan F around here.”

“What’s Plan F?”

Dean narrowed his eyes at the angel in chains.  “Kill everything.”

“That’s a terrible plan,” Cas said.

“Works better than Plan A.  But aside from _that_ , why wouldn’t this work?  You did it easy enough.”

“There are reasons I was able to do what I did the first time around.  Connections Sam and I have that this angel and Sam won’t.”

“Like what?”

Cas shrugged.  “I’ve touched his soul,” he said.  “I... have affection for him.”

Dean gritted his teeth.  “So?  We’ll get this chick to do whatever too.  And look, Sam’ll go all big-eyed and do that eyebrow thing--”  Cas laughed.  It sounded so human.  Dean frowned a little and went on.  “And he’ll have her eating out of his palm.  Guaranteed.”

“Wait,” the angel said, peering at Dean.  And then, in recognition:  “Sam... Sam _Winchester_?”

Dean grinned in surprise.  “Yeah.  See Cas?  We’re famous.”  He smacked Cas in the chest, but Cas was frowning at the angel.

“Yes, Sam Winchester.”

“The _abomination_?  The tainted one?”  The angel stepped into Cas’ space; Cas pressed his lips together and looked away.  “The boy king of Hell.  The monster with demon blood in his veins.  The man who said yes to Lucifer.”

“You bastards didn’t give us much of a choice!” Dean said.

“He’s the hated nemesis!  You would have me _help_ him?” the angel cried.

Dean shoved Cas out of the way and got into the angel’s space, snarling his fists into the angel’s tax accountant shirtfront.  “Listen to me you winged rat--”  

“Dean.”

“Cas goddammit--”

“Dean, stop.”  Cas’ hand on his arm brought him back from the tunnel vision.  Dean heaved and growled.  They still needed this thing’s help.  He stepped back.  Cas stepped forward, and his voice was so cold:  

“Listen well, Lethaniel.  That boy said yes to Lucifer because we designed it that way.   _We_ wanted the battle. And yet he chose to do it for reasons we couldn’t have anticipated.  He refused our plan, _volunteered_ for that Cage.  To save _everyone._ From _us_.  That _nemesis_ has sacrificed more than you could ever comprehend even _possessing,_ all for the sake of mankind.  He’s been doing _our_ job, you little shit, and you will show him the respect he deserves!”

Silence.

Which Dean broke.  Because damn, and awkwarrrd.  “Whoa.  Dude.”

“Dude,” Cas replied seriously, watching Lethaniel.

“That was awesome.”

Lethaniel, or whatever her name was, had the grace (har har) to look ashamed of her damn self.  She did this shuffling one foot thing that Dean thought was the kind of thing you’d only see in movies, and it occurred to him that the angel probably had taken her cues from popular media.  So... embarrassed and apologetic?  She’d better be, goddammit.  Dean gestured toward the stairs leading down.

“Hokay.  What’dya say we go meet the monster, huh?”

“Hey Dean, I--”  Sam broke off, just rounding the corner at the bottom of the stairs.

Well.  Shit.  Sam’s face said he’d caught the monster comment and nothing that had come before, and of course that was just Winchester timing all over.  “Sam--”

“I’ve been helping Kevin with some translations,” Sam went on, subdued.  He came up the stairs, looking anywhere but Dean.  Hurt, even though it was obvious Dean hadn’t meant anything by it.  Over-sensitive much, sasquatch?  Sam nodded at the angel and flipped his journal closed.   “Who’s this?”

“Angel.  Remember that angel hunt?”

“You’re hunting angels?” Lethaniel asked, alarmed.

“Nah,” Dean said.  “We only hunt dicks.  Oh, wait.”

Sam was staring at the angel, who stared back, each taking the other’s measure.  “You’re an angel?”  He looked the lady up and down, like he was looking for the knife behind her back or maybe the evil glint in her eye.  Or maybe that was shame on his face there, when he looked away from her with his brows together.  Like, really, _you_ aren’t worthy to be in the presence this soulless dick in a human girl’s body.  Really Sam?  Cry me a fucking river with this emo angst shit already, okay?

“Save it for your diary, Samantha,” Dean grumbled.

“This is Lethaniel.  She’s here to help you,” Cas said.

Sam looked confused.  “Help-- help me how?”

Cas stared, then he looked at Dean with what Dean thought Cas thought was disgust.  It looked more like Cas was sniffing a rotten diaper, which, to be fair, was the definition of disgusting.  “You didn’t tell him?”

Dean grimaced.  “I was getting around to it.”

“Tell me _what_ , Dean?”  Sam looked at him then.  Dean thought he saw anger there, or that _I knew it_ look, but a second later, he recognized it: Fear.  Fear.  And Dean knew that Sam _knew_.  “No,” Sam said, shaking his head.  “No, no.”

“It’s okay.  We’re gonna fix it.”

Sam was backing away.  Backing toward the stairs, and with a sigh, Dean caught his arm before he could tumble down them, and tugged him toward the conference table, because Sam had gone that gray-white again, and he was wobbling again.  “Come on, buddy.  It’s gonna be okay.”

“But.  I’m fine.  You said--”

“And you lied about seeing him again in the kitchen, right?” Dean said.  Sam’s eyes squeezed shut and Dean rubbed his back, just a little, as he propelled him toward a chair.  “I’m not busting your balls, kiddo.  I’m just saying, we gotta give each other some slack.  We’re gonna fix it, just like before.”

“That’s what she’s doing here, I guess,” Sam said, listless.  He nodded at the angel and stayed on his feet, even though Dean had pulled out a chair and given his shoulder a shove.

“I hope you don’t care that I was kidnapped,” she said, raising her bound hands.

Sam looked at Dean, accused him with that stupid pointy nose all wrinkled up, and he moved forward to release her.  “Dean, kidnapped?  Come on.”

Dean shrugged.  “Hey, it wasn’t _my_ plan to kidnap her.”

“Plan A assumed a more congenial angel response--” Cas began.

“Plan A never works,” Sam said.

“Plan F would have been inappropriate,” Cas replied.

Sam raised a brow at him, bewildered, glanced at Dean, who shrugged.  “Plan F is ‘Kill everything,’” he clarified.

Sam wrinkled his nose at him.  “To be fair, that’s also Plans B through E.”  He paused a moment.  “And G through Z.”

“It’s okay,” the angel said, looking into Sam’s face with something closer to wonder than disdain.  Her attitude had done a spectacular 180 and Dean tried to piece out why that was.  Physical contact, maybe, as Sam went for the warded bonds?  As soon as Sam had her hands free, she grasped onto his wrist.

Sam looked at her wide-eyed, and Dean moved forward in alarm to get between them.  But the angel didn’t make any other moves, just held onto Sam and looked at him, and she looked so confused, like she couldn’t understand what she was seeing.  Dean peered at Sam too, but he was still just Sam, just sick, nightmarey, tired Sam.  He looked back at Lethaniel and scoffed.

“You should see him when he’s not trying to die all over the place.”

Lethaniel ignored Dean and let Sam go when Cas nudged her toward a chair on the other side of the table saying, “there are things we should discuss first.”  She didn’t take her eyes off Sam though, and Dean’s hair stood up in worry.  In general, supernatural things taking an interest in his little brother spelled trouble.

“You spent time in the Cage,” Lethaniel said, softly.   

Sam stared, then dropped into the chair Dean had pulled out.  He nodded hollow and loose and looked away to stare into the middle distance, avoiding the angel’s deciphering gaze.  Dean wanted to tear her head off.

But then Sam’s brows went together and he focused on something unseen in that middle distance, and Dean rolled his eyes and put his hand on Sam’s shoulder.  And Sam startled and stuttered back to reality and looked into Dean’s face and took that moment to reground himself and said, “sorry.”

Lethaniel looked at Dean with her brows together.  Dean shrugged.  Yep, Sam in all his crazypants glory. _Fix him already._

“That’s a yes,” Dean said, while Sam squeezed his eyes shut a couple of times and got himself together.  He’d gotten pretty good at it after almost a year of practice.   “And we avoid the C-word, okay?”

“Uh, we do?” Sam said.

“I do,” Dean corrected.

“Oh.”  Sam eyebrowed at him, a question like _since when?_  Dean shifted in embarrassment.

“He was there close to two hundred years,” Cas said.  “It’s not designed for humans to endure.  It _will_ break him.  It nearly has once before.  He deserves a better end.”

“You want me to kill him?”  

“What? No!”  Dean rolled his eyes at Cas.  “Cas, dammit.”

Cas looked surprised.  “I only meant that he should not meet his end this way, here, now.”  He looked at Dean, probably assessed the threat there.  “Possibly, thirty years from now, in his bed, in his sleep?”

Dean made a face.  “Thirty?  Try fifty.”

“Guys,” Sam said.  “Stay on target?  Also, I’m right here, so.”

“How did you save him before?” Lethaniel asked, looking at Dean.

Dean nodded at Cas.  “Got him touched by an angel.”

“The... injury is permanent.  But I was able to shift the experience of it, the pain, away from Sam and...”

Lethaniel frowned.  “And onto yourself.”

Cas nodded.  “What we’re asking, it isn’t risk free.”

“You seem to have come out of it all right,” Lethaniel said, hopeful.

Again, Cas nodded.  “The effect was immediate, but I did come out of the coma within a few weeks.”

“Coma?”

“Cas, dammit,” Dean said.

“The pain is incredible.  I doubt you will have ever felt anything like it.”

Dean frowned.  Of course, he’d been there, he knew.  But he never discussed anything so frankly with Sam, least of all this huge terrible Thing, and he thought he could tell from Sam’s hunched shoulders and inability to look up from the table that he was supremely uncomfortable with the discussion of his personal private Hell -- like literally.  “Guys.”  He eyebrowed at his brother and Cas, at least, seemed to understand.

“Pardon our candid discussion.  That was insensitive.  I merely thought it prudent to inform--”

“She should know what she’s getting into,” Sam agreed.  He stared at the tabletop, sullen and sulking and it didn’t make sense that it was almost as welcome a sight to Dean as Sam smiling.  “There’ll be hallucinations.  Whatever you can imagine happens in the--”  He broke off and glanced at Dean with some guilt.  Jesus, kid, bigger fish okay?  Say whatever you want.  “Uh, you know.  Translated to what is possible here.  Sometimes what isn’t--”

“Just echoes,” Cas said, cutting Sam off with a sharp look at Dean.  “Echoes of Sam’s experience.”

Dean frowned and glanced at Sam.  Cas, chiding Dean for not shepherding Sam well enough?  Just who did he think changed this kid’s diapers?  Jesus.  Sam looked fine.  Worse for wear, obviously, upset about this whole Lucifer thing, maybe paler.  Whatever.   _Cas_ was the one talking on and on about the magnitude of the pain or whatever while Sam was hunching down in his chair trying to be three inches tall.  

Cas continued.  “It faded.  I woke up, I went on.  Your experience should be similar.  We could provide for your safety here, while you recover.”

“Yeah, we got lots of rooms,” Dean agreed.

Lethaniel was shaking her head.  “And when this cure wears off again?”

“It didn’t wear off,” Cas said.  “It should be permanent.”

“Then how--”

“Actually, yeah,” Sam said.  “Why _is_ this happening?  I didn’t -- nothing happened, I mean.  The trials?  Maybe?”

“It’s my fault,” Cas said.  He looked right at Sam when he said it.  Dean felt embarrassed for the guy.  Didn’t even know he was supposed to look down at the table or anywhere but at the kid he was apologizing to, didn’t even realize he was supposed to choke back an apology and just drink instead.  Didn’t know how to be human.  “Your Hell resided in my grace. When Metatron took it, he released your Hell back to you.  It’s my fault, Sam.  It’s all my fault, again.  I can’t, there’s no way to -- everything you’ve suffered, it’s all my doing, Sam.  Please.  Please, forgive me.  Sam, it was me--”

“Whoa, whoa,” Dean said.  

Sam was staring.  “Uhm.  I think we broke him?”

“Wait,” Lethaniel said.  “A) The scribe took your grace?  That _mouse_?”

“You really are a judgey little asshole, aren’t you?” Dean said.

“And B) You kept his Hell in your grace?  Castiel...”  Lethaniel looked amazed.  “Only God can do that.”

Cas stared at the table.  “Well, I’m certainly not God.  We may have to revise our knowledge of the universe.”

“Maybe your little stint as the Almighty was enough to imbue you with a godly gift or two,” Sam suggested.

“Yeah, or maybe your info is just wrong,” Dean said.  “We’re gonna try it, and it’s gonna work.  Or else.”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, or _else_ , we’ll try it and it won’t work.  Come on, Dean.  We have to face it.  How many get out of jail free cards can I possibly have left?  I mean I’m pretty sure I’ve stolen from your stack at this point.  In fact, I know I have.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Boys.”  Cas sighed, sounding a little too much like Crowley for Dean’s comfort.  “I was never God.  That myth about grace is just an old wise tale.”

Sam raised a brow.  “Old _wives’_ tale?”

“That seems incredibly impolite.  Either way, it’s rumor.  Myth.  God doesn’t have grace.”

“Castiel,” Lethaniel said, “that’s why they call it God’s grace.  Come on, _by the grace of God_?  It’s not a myth-!”

Cas lowered his brows at her.  “If God had grace, He’d be able to fall, and He can’t.  That being said, I’m still not certain this will work.”  He licked his lips.  “Sam and I share... affection.  History.  Trust.  I hope.”  He looked at Sam, swallowed roughly.

Sam smiled a little at him.  Of course.  Sam had always had faith in Cas, couple of little dicks, conspiring to give Dean a heart attack.  That little fucking smile.

“Come on, Cas,” Sam said.  “You’ve always done what you thought was right.”

Cas pressed his lips into a thin line.  Dean thought the newly human dude might cry.

“Okay, moment over.  Moving on,” Dean grumbled.  “We get it, you love each other.  So Sammy, turn on the charm so we can do this thing.”

Sam made a face at him.  Looked at Lethaniel.  Half smile, little fingery wave.  “Uh... hi?”

“Is that charming?”  Lethaniel asked.

“Uhm.  Yes?” Sam said.

Lethaniel observed him for a moment more, brows together in wonder and befuddlement.  Then she nodded and smiled a little and said, “Okay, I’m in.  I think.  Though that’s less _charming_ and more... _pitiful._ ”

“Hey, if pitiful works,” Sam laughed.

But then Cas had to rain all over their goddamned parade and say, “There’s the matter of his soul.”

“What about it?” Sam said.  “It’s in here, I swear.”

Cas smiled a little.  “I know.  But.  In order to do this, I’m afraid Lethaniel needs to have been in more... intimate contact with you than--”

“No.”

Dean raised a brow.  “Sam--”

Sam shook his head, hard.  “No.  You don’t understand--”

“No, I don’t think _you_ understand, Sam.  This is your _life_.”

Sam looked at him, with those _eyes_ , mouth open, teeth gritted, shaking his stupid head like that would change Dean’s mind.

“Come on,” Dean said, getting up.  “She’ll be gentle.  Or else.”

Sam watched Dean get out of his chair like Dean was about to attack him, shoulders heaving, but at least he didn’t bolt.  Not that he could have.  In fact, the fear of falling flat on his face was probably the only thing keeping him in his seat.

Lethaniel got up at Cas’ gesture and circled the table toward Sam, who shifted his gaze to follow her and Dean could swear he heard the kid’s heart pounding.  Yeah, Dean had witnessed this before, and it sucked, but it was like three seconds of some kind of agony and then it was over, and _Sam_ had actually _done_ it before, so just chill out, okay kid?

Dean put his hands on Sam’s shoulders.  Yes.  Okay, he was worried Sam would throw dignity to the wind and attempt escape, but more importantly, he wanted to actually be Sam’s brother, provide some kind of comfort, even if it was cheesy.

Sam was shaking under his hands.  Lethaniel knelt in front of Dean’s vacated chair and watched Sam.  “This will be uncomfortable,” she began.

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Sam said.

“We’ve done this before,” Dean assured her. Cas was already handing Dean his belt for Sam to bite down on.

“Be extraordinarily gentle,” Cas murmured.

“Of course I will.  A human soul--”

“ _Gentler than that._ ”

Lethaniel widened her eyes at the admonition, looked carefully at Sam, who’d taken to breathing these shallow desperate breaths, and swallowed.  “I will.”

Sam gritted his teeth and watched the angel roll up her sleeve.  His breathing slowed, suddenly, and under Dean’s hands, his shoulders stilled, and Sam said, “You don’t want to do this.  Please.”

“Sam--”

Sam held out his hand for the belt without taking his eyes off Lethaniel.  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  And then the belt was between his teeth and his eyes were closed, and one arm was crossed over his chest so he could grasp Dean’s hand at his shoulder.

Dean squeezed that shoulder once, then nodded to Lethaniel.

Like before, the angel pushed her hand into Sam’s body; no skin broken, no blood spattered.  Dean understood that it was more metaphysical than anything else, but that it was crazy painful, and Sam didn’t even bother trying to keep quiet about it.  In the distance, the tormented voice of their pet demon rose demanding answers.  Kevin came running from his closet/bedroom and skidded to a stop in his socks at Dean’s flung out hand.  

And then Lethaniel froze, _time_ froze, and Sam choked to quiet.  His grip on Dean’s hand was tense, waiting.

Breathe.  Breathe.

Sam trembled, keeping himself so still, watching the angel with this look on his face, and Cas leaned down to whisper “ _gently”_ into her ear, and Lethaniel licked her lips and looked like she might piss herself, and goddamn right she should be scared, because if something happened to Sam--

And then she moved forward, just ever so, and Sam’s grip on Dean’s hand tightened suddenly, and Dean heard something crack, but he felt nothing because --

Sam’s mouth was open, and no sound, no sound, just every muscle rigid and straining and tears glassing Sam’s eyes and leaking out and down and his eyebrows up and together like _why, no, why, please_ , and then his eyes were rolling up and his head was crashing back into Dean’s shoulder, and in reflex, Dean brought his other arm around to brace him across the collarbone, his other hand over Sam’s over Dean’s broken hand on Sam’s shoulder, all a mass of fingers and pain, and Sam wasn’t breathing, how could he when his muscles couldn’t unlock from the strain, the agony.

And then, it could have only been a handful of seconds later, although it felt like forever, Lethaniel was pulling back, too fast too fast, and she shot backward in shock into Cas’ waiting arms, who soothed her because she was sobbing and saying “What, what was that--”

And Dean was shaking Sam, pushing him away to see his eyes were half-mast and wet, he was awake but not breathing and for a long moment Dean thought _no no no_ , and then his baby brother gasped back to life again and pulled back to him and squeezed Dean’s broken hand _hard_ and murmured into his neck:

“ _I warned you._ ”

“That, that,” Lethaniel babbled.

“Shhh,” Cas soothed, _petting her goddamned hair_.

“What the shit,” Dean said.  “What the shit was that?  That didn’t happen before.”

Cas frowned.  “Sam has never been awake for this,” he said.

“What?  Yes he has!”

“He didn’t have a soul, then.”

“But Samuel--”

“And Samuel hadn’t been in _Hell_ , Dean!  I did warn you it would be a serious undertaking.”

Under Dean’s hands, Sam’s shoulders shook in some kind of mounting hysteria; he was _laughing_.  “This isn’t gonna work,” he slurred.  “You felt it, didn’t you?  You don’t want this.”

“Sam, stop,” Dean said.

“It’s ruined,” Sam breathed.  He shook his head, he was sweaty and clammy and and he wheezed into Dean’s neck and he mouthed again: _it’s ruined.  I warned you._

“Shh,” Dean said, bringing his hand up to hold Sam’s head where it lolled.  He tugged the kid’s face out of his neck, so Sam could breathe and so Dean didn’t have to feel him repeat over and over that shit, and instead, Dean just stared at Cas with his hand on Sam’s feverish forehead.  “Jesus.”

Sam pulled away though, dropped his chin to his chest, breathing easier after a minute, and he lifted Dean’s broken hand gingerly away from his shoulder and he growled, “You might wanna get her to look at that,” and it was so bitter and Dean thought _Jesus, back off, I didn’t know this would happen!_

But then Sam hunched forward away from Dean completely and leaned his elbows on his knees, curling around himself and Dean had to give up that line of thought, because there were lengths he would go to to save Sam’s life, and they both had to face that.  Dean would have done this regardless.  And he’d just have to accept that Sam hated him for it.  Fine.  

“It’s warm,” Lethaniel said, breathing hard herself, in front of Sam collapsed onto the floor between Cas’ knees.  She stared at Sam.  “It’s... raw and... _strange_.  But it’s _so_ warm.  What -- what--”

“Sam,” Cas said, smoothing a strip of sleek black hair behind her ear.  “It’s Sam Winchester.”

“Sam Winchester,” she echoed, like she was dazed, and had this happened to Cas too, when he’d gone in to check on Sam’s soul after Death had put up the wall?  Had he taken a moment to appreciate the depth of the damage there, had it taken his breath away like this?  Thanks for keeping that to yourself, Cas, you’re a true friend.  Bastard.

But then Lethaniel was moving forward, her hands on Sam’s knees, curled around his elbows, and she said, “What are you?  What are you?”

“Stop it,” Sam said.

“Sam,” she said.  “You’re... impossible.  I can’t--”

“It’s okay.  You know what, I had a good run.”  Sam pulled his elbows out of her hands and put his hands on the table to try to stand up.

“Sam,” Dean said.

“Wait, that’s not--” Lethaniel said, and she grabbed his knees and held him down into the chair, and by the way, did either of them remember how _strong_ angels were, because it looked like Sam had forgotten, and his mouth opened in surprise and Dean said, “Lady--!”

“I want to help you, Sam,” she said, ignoring Dean.  “Sam, let me.”

Dean looked at Cas, but Cas just shrugged and watched, doubtful.  Thanks for the encouragement, buddy.

Sam stared, and he looked up at Dean for some direction, maybe.  Dean rolled his eyes.   _What was all the agony for just now if you don’t go through with this?_ Dumb kid.  “Say yes, Sammy.”

“Yeah,” Sam muttered, petulant.  “ _This_ you give me a choice about.”  He looked at the angel, took a deep breath, and nodded.  “Do your worst.”

Lethaniel smiled and lifted her hand to Sam’s forehead.  Dean held his breath.

The glow wasn’t quite like Cas’ whole veiny spectacle back in the mental ward.  Dean imagined it wasn’t exactly a common technique angels learned in angel school.  She was just trying to suck up whatever pain she could find in Sam, whatever big old terrible evil was lurking in there--

And she gasped, and blinked.  The glow faded.  She set her face in determination and tried again.  Again, she gasped and the glow faded.

“It’s too... it doesn’t fit.  It doesn’t fit.  It’s not... _right_.”

“What,” Sam said.  “What are you saying?”

“I can’t do it.  I can’t do it.  Castiel--”

Cas frowned at Sam.  Dean wanted to slap that little mouth right off his face.  “I was afraid it wouldn’t work.  Do you not love him enough, Lethaniel?”

“It’s just--”  She looked up at Cas.  “It just doesn’t fit.”

“His _soul_ is too big?” Dean guessed.  “You don’t get his soul, you know that right?”

The angel looked from Cas to Dean.  “No, no.  There’s a break.  It doesn’t... match up.”  She shook her head and looked back at Cas.  “I don’t understand.”

“I do,” Sam said softly.  “You can’t fix me.  After all of that -- I’m broken.  I can’t be saved.”  He nodded, hollow.  “That’s fine.  Story of my life.”  He pressed down on the tabletop to stand, wobbled there a moment, then turned toward the stairs.  “Dean.  Sorry about your hand.”

Dean looked down at it, already swelling, then back up to his brother.  “Hey, it was an accident.”

Sam smiled that half-smile.  “No it wasn’t.  Let Crowley out, will you?  I’m gonna go take a nap.”

The room was silent except for the sluff of Sam’s steps and his harsh breathing.  Dean watched him get halfway across the room before he held out a hand to Kevin and Kevin went to help him.  Dean sank into Sam’s vacated chair and scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Well that was a bust.”

“Indeed,” came a voice from near the kitchen.

Dean was out of his chair in an instant, already reaching for the gun he knew wasn’t tucked into his waistband.  This was supposed to be a safe place, dammit.  On the far side of the room, Sam spun and pushed Kevin behind him, gasping for breath at the movement, but battle-ready, demon blade out.

Death watched them a moment, amused, apparently, then swept into the room.  “Looking for miracles again, I see.”  He narrowed his eyes at Sam across the room, then smiled brightly at Dean.  “Lucky for you, I have a favor to ask.”

 

 

THE END

* * *

 NEXT TIME, on _Supernatural_ :

 Death needs a favor, and what a happy coincidence, so does Dean.  But what could Death possibly want from the Winchesters that he couldn’t do for himself?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for episode 2, which should be like half as long, considering we've got a whole season to get through here! Thanks for your kudos and comments. And as usual, special thanks to Caladrius and TrippyPeas for help in putting this season together. For an amazing season 1/2 casefic, check out Caladrius' "The Boogeyman," chapter 3 now posted!


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